A Voice without a Soul
by MouetteHeartsErik
Summary: At the end of the movie, Christine chose Raoul, but she discovers she still belongs to Erik voice, heart, mind, and soul.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** Why am I starting another story? Because Erik is a _terrible_ muse. He keeps punjabing everything. Hope you enjoy. 'Tis based mostly off the movie, with bits of Kay and Leroux thrown in. **Disclaimer**: I own nothing—not even my muse, obviously—and nothing owns me.

_A Voice without a Soul_

_Christine_

I did not speak to Raoul much that night after we left the cellars. I was unspeakably angry—at both of them, and at myself as well. Raoul and Erik forced me to leave _him_, leave my fallen angel in his cellar with a mob advancing on his hidden home. Why was I so contemptibly weak—and why, _why_ did they make me choose?

Raoul only said one thing that night I remember: he asked me to leave the Opera behind for good. If I had not already been furious with him for dragging me away—no chance to explain, no way to say a true goodbye to Erik—I might not have had the strength to refuse. But refuse I did; in a cold tone which reminded me too forcefully of my angel at his demonic worst, I informed Raoul that the Garnier was my home; not only did I not wish to leave it, but I would be obliged if he would return me to it first thing in the morning.

The damage would not be extensive, despite the fire, that much I knew. Erik loved his beautiful home, his shrine to Music, far too much to do any lasting harm to it. As for the chandelier . . . well, he'd always hated it.

Raoul did not answer me, and we sat in his brother's front room in silence the rest of the night. I think he was learning that I was not quite his little Lotte anymore . . . that was our first disagreement over the Opera House; it would not be the last.

In fact, our second came early the next morning. Good as his word, Raoul was escorting me home. We had just entered, and I turned to go down the narrow, tangled passages that led to my dressing room, when I realized he was no longer beside me. "_Where_ are you going?" Raoul demanded sharply. I only looked at him in confusion; he had walked this path often enough to know where it led. "You cannot possibly be thinking of returning to that room, Christine," he added quietly, reaching out to touch my cheek. "Not after all that's happened?"

I felt my lower lip begin to tremble. I hate crying; I hate it. It wasn't as if this whole mess was even Raoul's fault; all he ever did was love me. All either of them ever did was love me. The only crimes I could fault them with were those of jealousy.

No, I knew that wasn't true, not for Erik; I knew all too well that Ubaldo Piangi had not been the first man he killed. Yet I found myself shaking, looking at Raoul helplessly, at the thought of moving to another room. That tiny, far-off dressing room was my home, the only connection I had to Erik, and I couldn't leave it. I couldn't. Not even for Raoul.

Dear, sweet Raoul. Without a word he took me in his arms and gently led me to my dreamy little home, so blessedly removed from the other dressing-rooms and dormitories. The great mirror, stretching across one whole wall, was silent; my faithless heart told me it always would be.

The next few weeks were filled with rebuilding, rehearsing, preparing for a grand re-opening night. A certain announcement in the paper—_Erik is dead_—had sent fear into my blood, but I spoke to some who had been in the mob, and they told me that when they reached the lake, they found that _the house had disappeared_. I knew my marvelous angel had performed one last grand illusion for an audience that didn't even know it was being fooled; he would have loved the irony. He lived; he had to live.

Carlotta, grieving, had returned to Spain; no one murmured a word when the managers asked me to take the remaining three years of her contract. No one, that is, but a Vicomte who strongly wished me to leave the stage.

The first time I sang in rehearsal, I was surprised and horrified at the sound of my own voice. No one else seemed to notice a thing; fussy M. Reyer even complimented me. But listening to it, I felt was cold and emotionless, a beautiful, perfect instrument played without a heart.

I guess there is a price for everything; I had sung my soul for one man only, and when he disappeared, he took it with him.

Raoul was . . . understandably upset, one morning when he brought me breakfast. I had not answered his knock at my dressing-room door. In truth, I had not heard it. He entered to find me leaning my forehead against the glass of my mirror, listlessly staring into nothing.

I might have expected him to be angry. I could face his anger, but not his pain. He knelt down beside me and tenderly pressed his face into my hands—the closest we had touched since the night of _Don Juan_. Unwillingly, I felt his tears as he told me, "Don't make me go through this again, Christine. Don't make me sand by your side and watch helplessly as you turn into a wraith." I did not answer; I could see the shadows under my eyes as well as he could. "I think I begin to understand how very close I was to losing you down there, Christine. You were his captive; sometimes I wonder if you wish I had not freed you."

Turning to him, I knelt and gently kissed his cheek. "I am sorry, Raoul. I love you dearly, my white knight, but I loved him too. Can you understand that? Can you forgive it? Yes, I am . . . grieving him, I guess, in some strange way, but I am with you. Please, just give me a little time."

"As you wish," he answered softly.

I did not tell him I was still very much Erik's captive in my heart. That imprisonment, even Raoul could not free me from.

The opening gala went splendidly; Paris was insatiably curious about its Opera House. I had even overheard young members of the nobility daring each other to attend. To them it was a thrill . . .

When he came to my dressing-room after the performance, Raoul seemed a little upset, wary, even. I asked him what was wrong and he said "Nothing at all. I just thought I heard something; a memory."

This made no sense, but I let it pass.

"Christine," Raoul asked slowly, "are we still engaged?"

I had been sitting at the vanity, undoing my hair pins; feeling a little like Medusa, I turned to gaze at him. Finally, I answered, "I don't know. Your family would not want you to marry an opera-singer."

"Blast it, Christine, _I_ don't want to marry an opera-singer!" He reached out to stroke one of my curls. "I want to marry _you_."

"Then you have a problem, my dear, for I am an opera-singer."

Raoul shook his head. "You've had your grand triumph tonight; you've proven you can sing without him. Leave this life now, and come home with me."

"_That's_ what you think this is about?" I asked in stunned disbelief. "You think I live here, night and day, spending every waking moment in the above-ground stories of this kingdom, singing until I can't speak, to _prove_ something? I am here because I love it here, Raoul. This _is_ my home. Music is what gets me through each day. Please, do not ask me to leave it." I met his gaze. "I have already lost two men who tore their music from my life when they left me. Will you make me abandon all that remains to me of them?"

"I thought," he whispered, staring back at me, "that you chose between us that night in the cellars." A bitter smile, of the sort I had never seen on him, chilled me as he softly quoted, "_You try my patience. Make your choice._ Because yes, Christine; I am asking you to leave him."

I closed my eyes as he shut the door behind him; somehow, the firm, decided gesture was worse than if he had slammed it. I shivered and went to my little corner bed to wrap a blanket around my shoulders. It seemed cooler . . .

When I turned back to the vanity, it held a single blood-red rose.

Mesmerized by the graceful lines of the flower, I reached to pick it up, gasping as my fingers were pricked.

_He had not removed the thorns_.

To me, the message was clear. I was being offered a second chance, but not one without danger. He would be no Angel; like the cat he so resembled, there was a possibility Erik's claws might not stay in their velvet sheaths this time.

"How much of that did you hear?" I asked, carefully holding the rose to my face.

Even holding his rose, I did not believe it was real until I heard him speak to me in that angel's voice. "There has been little said in this room that I have not heard," he replied.

I winced. Forget the arguments—and the smiles—I had shared with Raoul in this room; I had woken several times in the middle of the night with _his_ name on my lips. Erik laughed, just a little, and I knew he had heard that as well. Taking a deep breath, I turned to face him.

He looked precisely as he always had; thick black hair swept back and gleaming, his otherwise handsome features set off by the spotless white mask, his cloak and evening attire perfectly elegant. And his eyes . . . those bright, deep eyes, as ever with their slight spark of dormant cruelty and hidden pain—I had found my lost soul. It was held prisoner with my heart in those eyes.

I opened my arms in a helpless gesture. "What now?" I asked softly.

"Indeed." He leaned back against the closed mirror and regarded me steadily. "There are, as always, several options open to you. You may run after your Vicomte in tears, assuring his forgiveness and your silence. You may live here and test whether your hold on him is of sufficient strength to overcome his fear of losing you once more. Freeing the Vicomte, you may still choose to live here, trying to walk two divergent lines—neither wholly his nor wholly mine, but tied to us both. I don't recommend that course, however, as it contains the greatest likelihood of all of us ending rather miserably. You _could_ try calling for the gendarmes, though I assure you that both myself and my home would be quite gone by the time they arrived."

"Or?" I whispered.

"Or," Erik gestured, and the mirror opened behind him. He extended one long, black-gloved hand to me. "You may come home."

"You give me no half-way options with you."

An infinitesimal shrug of the broad shoulders acknowledged this. "No," Erik agreed, "I do not. Do you wish to make an argument against the fact that you have lost that privilege?" He did not wait for my response. "Be very sure of your heart, Christine, before you choose. I am not your wayward pup; were I him, I would not have tolerated you living here under my influence. As you should have learned by now, _I _demand complete fidelity."

I lowered my gaze to the rose in my hands. So beautiful; so painful. "I know, Erik." I sighed and forced myself to ask, "Will you be able to forgive me for that night?"

"I will consider the possibility."

"I refuse to live in constant penance, Erik."

He coolly raised one eyebrow at me. "Nor would I have you with me under such terms. The night grows late, my dear, and my offer has a time constraint. Choose."

Raoul was gentle and kind. Raoul was good and sweet and only wanted my happiness. I did try to see things from his point of view; I knew he had every right to be upset with me tonight. But he did not understand; and he had never listened.

I could not live without music.

Deeper in my heart whispered an echo: I could not live . . . without Erik.

For his sake, I hoped Raoul would find a woman who could give him what I never would have been able to: her whole heart. Such a woman would wake in the night calling his name; he deserved that. Oh, my dear Raoul, I love you and I will miss you, but please—just this once—understand. Even that first night you came for me, I was not free; I already belonged to another. My childish inability to realize that has caused enough suffering in this world. Let go of me, so that you will not suffer any farther.

I reached out my hand to my angel of darkness. He looked at it for a moment, remotely, and I experienced a deep flash of fear that he would reject me in angry vengeance for his shattered heart. The moment passed, and the cool, smooth leather of his gloves enfolded my hand. I looked up to meet his gaze.

"Come," he said.

We did not speak again until we were rowing across the lake. Unable to bear with the silence any longer, I started to say, "The managers—"

"Will be dealt with," Erik answered smoothly.

"You're dead, you know," I quietly informed the water slipping away beneath the prow. "Or had you forgotten?"

"I am a ghost, _my Lady_," Erik replied cuttingly. "I have always been dead. It is one of the virtues of never truly living."

Why does he have this power over me? I can fight Raoul without two lonely tears falling into the water, but Erik's harshness stung. I kept my face turned away from him and did not speak so that my voice could not betray me; I had no desire for him to know he could hurt me so easily.

Erik knew anyway. It was a long moment before I realized that the boat had stopped moving and the oars were silent. His voice, when he spoke, was soft and warm just beside my ear. "Do you wish me to return you to your room?"

He was serious. I shook my head, still refusing to speak for the tightness in my throat.

"I will not have you with me against your will, Christine."

I swallowed. "If I wanted to return, I would have asked to." Oh, how I hated that hoarseness. "I deserve your scorn, Erik, don't think I'm unaware of that. Please, just take me home."

"No," he said slowly, "you don't. I seem to recall swearing that you would suffer no consequences for your decision. I have . . . less than kept that promise. My apologies."

Never, in all our time together, had I heard him express any sort of guilt or sorrow at his own actions toward me. I nodded; after a moment, we continued forward.

My thoughts were drifting, but something Raoul had said earlier clicked in my mind. I turned to look at him over my shoulder. "What did you say to upset Raoul tonight?"

For a moment it seemed he would deny it; then Erik's mouth lifted in his sardonic half-smile. "Something similar to what I asked him a month or two ago. I merely questioned whether he was quite certain who you were singing for."

"I sing for no one," I answered, thinking of that strange emptiness I heard every time I sang.

"You can hear it, then? You sound as you did when I first began to teach you—you possess better technique, but you are still devoid of true sound."

We had reached the house now, and he ushered me inside. His words were true, and nothing I had not told myself, but I disliked learning that the soulless quality of my voice was not my imagination. "No one else has complained," I replied stiffly as we entered the music room.

"No one else knows your voice as I do," he answered with faultless logic. "However, I may have a solution. Warm up with that," he handed me one of my old work-pieces, "and then prepare to sing Elissa's solo from act three." I was distrusting of this, of falling into the roles of student and teacher once more, but I did as he asked. When Erik was satisfied that I was sufficiently prepared, he ceased playing the piano and came close to me. Believing that he was going to correct my posture, I held still and watched him; then, quite suddenly, his lips were against mine and he was kissing me with all the ardor of the first kiss we had shared down here. He was the last man to have kissed me; Raoul had not yet tried to retake that liberty. I found myself melting into the extraordinary, passionate depth of his kiss; I had been taken aback, but not unpleasantly so, and I reached up to hold him close.

As soon as I touched him, he pulled away. "Elissa. Two bars." Erik began to play the introduction.

He had me completely stunned.

My entrance came and went with me staring at him in silence, one hand to my lips; Eirk raised an eyebrow at me and began again. Uncertainly, I lifted my voice. "_Think of me, think of me fondly when we've said good bye. Remember me_ . . ." I trailed off in surprise.

That cold, lost quality had vanished. Even in those few words, I knew I had never sounded better.

"Amazing," Erik murmured, eyeing me. "Six months of lessons, and all I had to do was kiss you."

I turned my back to him; I had to. I couldn't face the joy hidden under the amusement in his gaze. "You are forgetting, monsieur," I said in an almost normal tone, "that as a proper young lady I would not have permitted a man I had just met to kiss me."

"You would have let your _angel_ kiss you, cherie." This was spoken with contempt; whether for me or for himself or the both of us, I could not tell.

I looked back; he had turned from me and was stroking the keys of the piano. "Play me Aminta's duet with Don Juan," I asked suddenly.

"No."

"Why I am here, Erik?" I took a hesitant step toward him.

He turned and gave me a long glance. "I had thought it was because you chose to follow me."

"But why did you ask me to?"

Erik's manner chilled noticeably. Something whizzed toward my face and I caught it out of sheer reflex. I gaped down at Raoul's enormous engagement ring in my hand. "Perhaps I only needed to return that," he told me flatly.

I touched the stones he had thrown. "That would have left quite a bruise."

"It already has."

He walked out, and I was left staring at a ring whose clear diamonds had been replaced with stones of flawless black.


	2. Chapter 2

_Erik_

I have never harmed a woman with my hands.

But words? Oh, words are my weapon of choice. And they are so much more effective against women; a man will forget a cruel comment that a woman will not only memorize, but use against herself.

I did not want to hurt Christine. And yet, I did. So I accomplished the only thing I could: I left. Which, I realized, probably still hurt her. Sometimes, I wonder if women—or perhaps just one woman—are not all addicted to pain in their hearts. Else, why would they keep coming back for men to hurt them more?

She was crying. Again. I cursed the whim that had driven me to design this house so that every sound in it flooded to my coffin-room.

I heard another noise, then; my bell. Bloody Persian. How could I have forgotten that Nadir had checked on me nightly since the chandelier fell? He was hovering; I despise hovering. I think he blamed himself for being gone from Paris that night . . . as if, my old friend, you could possibly have stopped me. You did not see me then; you do not understand that I would only have killed you, as well.

He was at the Rue Scribe entrance; instead of opening the door that would allow him into the foyer, I pulled the lever that would take him straight to me. If he was confused when the side door opened, he gave no sign. Nadir clearly read the anger on my face, however, and was silent just long enough for another of those tiny hiccoughs Christine makes when she is desperately trying to stop weeping echo through the room.

"Erik," the daroga said flatly, "who else is in this house with us?"

I motioned irritably to the music room. "She's being unreasonable," I muttered.

He understood immediately. "Oh, Erik, no. Not again." Nadir strode toward the door that led deeper into the house; when he found it locked, he turned and glared at me. He did not bother to keep his voice down. "You must let me through, Erik. You cannot keep her here by force; how many times must I say that to you before you will understand it?"

"That door was not locked for _you_, daroga." It hurt, that he still thought—after everything he had seen—that I would force any woman to be with me. Nadir just looked at me. "I locked it so that I would not be tempted to shout at her, or worse." My voice was very quiet; I knew that the trick which carried sound to this room worked both ways. Anywhere Christine was in my home, she could hear me from here.

What his answer would have been I cannot tell, for at that moment Christine's voice whispered, "Erik?"

In an even tone, I replied, "Yes, dear?"

"I . . . I'm cold . . ." Of course she was cold. I had not bothered to light any fires; I preferred, lately, to sit in the chilly darkness.

"One moment." I stood and ungently slipped past Nadir. Unlocking the door, I went in search of my pale young sylph.

_Christine_

I had not moved from the music-room; I shivered as Erik opened the door and quietly entered. He had with him enough wood to start a respectable blaze—and the Persian I had often seen around the Opera House. I should have been curious, but all I could feel at that moment was a cold misery. It startled me when, instead of immediately lighting the fire, Erik simply laid the wood in the grate and then came close to me. His long, quick fingers touched my wrist and my neck. "You're freezing," he murmured. The concern in his voice made me squeeze my eyes shut against the confusion he seemed determined to inspire in my heart. Perhaps he took my closed eyes as permission; whether he did or not, I was quickly in his arms, gathered against his chest. He was warm and solid and I unashamedly buried my face in exposed skin of his throat. There was such a comfort in being held like this; he could have lit the fire, he could have wrapped me in his cloak, but to simply be _held_ warm against his heart . . .

It felt like heaven.

Behind Erik, the newly lit fire began to throw light and heat into the room; the Persian must have started it. Despite my fingers insistently tangled in his lapels, Erik pulled away from me. He took my unresisting hand and led me to the cozy armchair which was closest to the fire; almost before I knew it, I was settled down into the chair with Erik's familiar warm black cloak over me.

At any other time, I would have been grateful for that cloak; I loved it. But Erik's cloak was a poor excuse indeed for Erik's arms.

I may have drifted, for a few moments, in and out of sleep; when I focused, Erik and the Persian were sitting on the couch talking in low but sharp tones. Raising my head, I watched them; Erik seemed to be arguing something, but he broke off when he saw my renewed interest. "You should rest, Christine," he told me quietly. "Your room is as it always was—there is a fire there and you will be warm." I wanted to argue, wanted to ask who the strange companion with him was, but I could not hide my own weariness.

Rising, I walked to them and touched Erik's face. "Good night," I murmured, turning to leave the room.

"One moment," Erik's voice made me pause and turn back to him. He indicated the Persian with one gloved hand. "If you would be so good as to assure my guest that I have _not_ kidnapped you from your room and that you are staying with me out of choice?"

"You did kidnap me from my room," I replied, "but I am here because I wish to be." Sweeping them both an extravagant curtsey—I'm afraid I was getting a little giddy with sleepiness—I left them by the fire.

_Erik_

I scowled after her. That was hardly reassuring enough for one, like Nadir, who has seen me control men with the mere sound of my voice; surprisingly, he seemed to take what she had said in good faith. When I queried him, my old friend answered, "If you were controlling her, she would not have disagreed with you."

"Unless I made her disagree with me to trick you."

Nadir's mouth twisted in a smile. "Did you?" I shook my head. "I am willing to trust you on this, for now, Erik. And if you wouldn't mind, it is growing late. I must return."

"Don't let me keep you," I grumbled, "you're here at your insistence, not mine."

He left, and I sat alone watching the fire for a few moments. Christine's question—_why did you ask me here?_—was echoing through my mind, and I could not find an answer. I knew I still loved her, still wanted her with me, but how was I going to prevent her disappearance from becoming a sensation?

I ought to stop taking her away on opening nights. It's becoming something of a bad habit.

There were a few things, however, that I _could_ do, and I set about them with a slight grin on my features.

I watched as he opened the note; I could hardly resist. I had left it on her vanity, along with a red rose petal, and waited behind the mirror. As I had predicted he would, the lovesick young Vicomte entered Christine's room about an hour after I had taken her from it. He called her name and frowned when he received no answer; stepping fully into the room, he looked around for his dear little Lotte, but she was nowhere to be seen.

He spotted the note and reached for it, obviously hoping it was from her, but his hand slowed as he recognized my particular seal and handwriting. He proved unable to resist prying; I think he was rather shocked when he found that my little message was for _him_.

_Monsieur le Vicomte_

_One day, perhaps, you and I will learn not to make her choose._

_O.G._

Delicious.

**A/N: **Please read and review!


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N**: Thanks everyone so much for reviewing! It makes me want to write more . . . hehehe, not that I wouldn't anyway, but reviews certainly help. Also (shameless self promotion), check out my other stories for some more E/C fluffy angst. Hope you like this chapter, it's a little short.

All Apologies: Thanks! I'm updating as fast as I can, keep reading!

satinzevi89: Thanks—here's another chapter for you.

MonAngedeMusique: I love your username, by the way. Thanks for commenting—of course Erik has a sense of humor, he's Erik! He is a wicked little guy, though, isn't he? I write Erik with humor in this story because of the "Notes" sequences in the play and movie—anyone who can write such utterly sarcastic and funny messages has to have a sense of humor.

Poetzproblem: Thanks for the review! I'm not quite sure _where_ this is going, actually—it's just sort of coming into my head as is. Therefore, I will be as surprised as you will be at anything that happens 

_Erik_

He was highly entertaining. My favorite part was when the note burst into flame, destroying his 'evidence'; or perhaps it was as he frantically searched for the switch to release the mirror. Of course I changed it, idiot; how stupid did he think I was?

I left when he started to repeat himself; some of those names were very unflattering.

If Christine cried out for me in her sleep that night, I did not hear it; weariness had come over me and I spent quite a few hours actually asleep. I woke early and, arguing with myself, slipped into Christine's room. Just to check on her, I thought; surely that could do no harm? She was asleep, her cloud of dark hair strewn across the pillow; she looked so beautiful, so delicate . . . _just for a few moments_, I told myself as I sat in the armchair by her bed. I could watch her sleep forever; a few moments would not hurt her and might help me.

I had been in her room for nearly an hour when she opened her eyes. Christine smiled at me, a little, then a shadow came over her features. She rose and turned her back to me. Uncertain of what was wrong, I asked, "Christine?"

"I had forgotten," she spoke distantly. "I felt last night like something was out of place, missing; I just remembered what it was." I waited. "Every other time you have brought me here, you have made a promise to me, but you did not make it last night."

Anger made me clench my fists. I knew precisely which oath she was talking about, but if she wanted a discussion she was going to have to say it. "And what promise might that have been?"

She still did not look at me. "You always swore," Christine answered quietly, "that you would not touch me against my will."

"Spoken or not, do you honestly believe I would break that promise to you, under any circumstances?" I demanded, standing up.

Christine shivered at the fury in my tone. She was reading far too much into my decision not to remove the thorns from her rose; I had just wanted to scare her a little, warn her that this would not be easy. "Well," she whispered almost inaudibly, "You did kiss me last night."

I let myself chuckle quite cruelly. "Yes, I did, didn't I? And your reluctance was incredibly obvious. Tell me, was your protest against my actions before or after you tried to bring me nearer?" She shuddered but did not answer; I moved close to her. I did not touch her, as per her request, but I let my lips linger near her collarbone, her throat, her mouth, my breath warm against her skin. "I can't hear you," I growled huskily. "Where is your resistance, my dear? You really should fight harder—go any more quietly, and I would be forced to assume that you were willing . . . that you wanted me to kiss you . . . your heart is pounding, isn't it? From fear, I wonder, or from something else?"

"Stop it, Erik," she asked in a shaky voice.

I immediately withdrew; as I left her room, I spoke over my shoulder, "You see, Christine? You only ever need ask."

I closed the door on any reply she might have made.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** On with a short bit of the story. Mwuahahaha.

Anacari: Thanks for the review! I'm glad you like it.

_Christine_

I was shaken.

I wanted him to stay away; I wanted him to come nearer. I could not decide which would be more awful; if he did not still love me, or if he did. I couldn't tell; his actions and his words changed from one moment to another, leaving me only certain of two things. He confused me . . . and I still loved him. I had to; if I didn't, my heart wouldn't be hurting so.

It was at least an hour before I dared venture out of my room. I had hoped that he would be in his room, or the music room, or anywhere else, but instead he was sitting lazily in the kitchen, long legs crossed at the ankles and resting on the table, a worn novel in his hands. He was wearing, as always, a white dress shirt and black trousers; Erik's cloak was nowhere to be seen. He looked gentler here, candlelight glowing against his features, and before he glanced up to meet my gaze I could see something—was that possibly regret?—twisting the corner of his mouth. I think he knew I would not speak first; Erik bade me a simple "Good morning," his voice almost cool . . . almost. I could hear a note of tenderness running just beneath the surface, and it was to that note I chose to respond.

"Good morning," I replied quietly. I forced myself to meet his eyes, a gentle smile briefly lifting the corners of my mouth, before I turned to the cupboards in search of breakfast.

He moves so quickly; sometimes I still feel he must be half-immortal, at least, to move with such speed. Erik was behind me, close to me, not touching me at all but overwhelming me with his presence. "What do you _want_ from me, Christine?" he demanded softly. I had the distinct impression he had been prepared for me to be cold or angry with him; I smiled, just a little, at the thought that I had surprised him.

I turned. "Shouldn't I be the one asking you that?"

Erik went still; only his eyes were moving, roaming freely over my face as though looking for something. "Why did you have to come back?"

"Why did you ask me to?"

The faintest curve of a grin touched his lips. "I asked first."

There was only the slightest distance between us; I closed it by slowly reaching up and wrapping my arms around his neck. Guiding him nearer, I kept my eyes steady on his. A dark question that I did not want to answer was lurking in his gaze, but I ignored it and pressed our mouths together. This was not the deep, almost frighteningly passionate kiss of last night, but a slow, gentle tie between lovers who had nothing else in the world to concern them save each other. Or, at least, that is what I thought it was; slowly I realized that he had stopped kissing me and was holding still again with that chilly distance I could never hope to match. He wanted to act like this was nothing? Fine. I pulled away from him. "I came back for your music, of course," I answered his question with all the reserve I had. I turned indifferently from him and reached for an apple.

When I looked back, he was gone.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N**: Wow, thanks everyone for reviewing! My dear muse was very pleased with having so many reviews to read when he woke me up. And a happy ErikMuse is a _good_ thing (since he is far less likely to punjab things when he's happy).

Anacari: Thanks much—updating here again for you!

All Apologies: I agree—tension is _so_ wonderful -grin- This is really the only story I have going that has tension _between_ Erik and Christine, so I'm running with it.

Prying Pandora: I absolutely don't mind—I would love if you continued to review every single chapter! Thanks! Yes, I was quite happy with him replacing the stones—it's just so _Erik_. I'm glad you like my Christine; I do, too. While I like all of them, she's quite different from the other Christines I'm writing. A little rougher in her mental voice, but still very much the innocent, indecisive child we all know (and, for Erik's sake, love).

phantomlovin4ever: I know, I know, it was short—particularly after my monstrous first chapter—but I wanted to give ya'll something to tide you over. Glad you liked it!

On with the show!

_Erik_

Doesn't she know how dangerous it is, kissing me like that? Doesn't she realize the demons such a precious kiss will awaken in my heart? Half of me wanted to take her in my arms and never let go. The other part of my soul grew angry; and it was that part which caused me to resist her, to leave her.

I paced my study restlessly, drawing unfavorable comparisons even in my own mind to a caged animal. I wanted so much to believe that her affection was sincere; but she had lied to me with a kiss once before. Hadn't she? Perhaps the second had been real, but that first kiss in the cellars, with her precious _Vicomte_ hanging by his aristocratic neck, had been solely about freeing dear old Raoul from the grasp of the psychotic murderer.

Me, if anyone was wondering.

Curse her. Curse her innocent eyes and her tumbling curls, her gentle smiles and her sweet, tender kisses. And curse most of all the way she had looked at me that night, unmasked and wretched before her, and had flinched not from my _face_, but from my soul. I knew why I wanted her to have agreed to come with me; as thoroughly and as viciously as I blasphemed her in my mind, all I longed for was the tiniest sliver of her heart. But I feared that she had had other motives; what, I couldn't think of. Christine could not love me; she was just leading me on, playing with my heart one last time. Even though such callousness would be completely out of character for her and I knew it, I refused to accept the most obvious reason for her presence.

We all wear blinders that shield us from our own truths.

I dropped into my worn desk and stared glumly across the study. This was a small antechamber off the coffin-room, a place where I kept the works I did not want anyone—meaning Christine—to see. She stared at me from a variety of surfaces, done in charcoal or pencil for the most part, but a few pieces were warm with living color. I had captured her here in every mood, save a few; I refused to see her in anger or in adoration. I picked up one of my favorite drawings: Christine, distracted, an errant curl in her mouth, gazing into a dream no one else could see. Her fingers were playing idly with a rose, an engagement ring sparkling on her finger.

The engagement ring. I had replaced the stones with black diamonds in a fit of boredom and melancholy; it reflected my own dark heart. Never had I intended to give it back to her, but Christine always has had a unique ability to inspire impulsive actions on my part. I frowned suddenly as I remembered her hands this morning, winding around my neck; had there been a touch of cool metal there?

Impossible. I must have been imagining it.

Nevertheless, the notion that she might actually have worn the blasted thing for me severely weakened what was left of my anger. It was so unlikely as to be laughable—but what if she _was_ sincere?

She would be rightfully hurt, and rightfully furious with me.

Rising slowly to my feet, I glanced about as if looking over a layout of my home. She would not be in here, obviously, nor was she in the coffin-room, so where was she? Making a decision, I headed for the largest room in the house, the music area. If she wasn't with the music, she would be in her room, and I wasn't about to go _there_ again without an express invitation.

_Christine_

Is this how love is killed? With cold rejection? It was a bitter taste of my own medicine, as the saying goes; and all Erik did was stop returning my kiss. I could not imagine how much more I would hurt if he had turned from me to shower affection on another. I began to understand a shadow of his pain, the pain that was obviously making it difficult for him to trust me.

I knew, at least, that he still loved me. I had seen it in his eyes, just before our lips touched. Erik's love was a deep and stirring emotion he rarely let show, but I had been privileged enough to have known that look before; I had seen it on the stage during Don Juan, down in his cellar lair after our first two soul-wrenching kisses, and in a final glance that night as I closed his fingers over a diamond ring that had been a gift from another man. It was the same look he had worn the first time he brought me to his home and sang to me of another, darker world . . .

Quietly I touched the keys of the piano in front of me. I knew how to play a few things, mostly light and easy songs that were soothing after a day of rehearsal, but I did not begin any of them. I moved from the piano to the same deep armchair he had settled me in last night; firmly, I pushed away the memory of how he had held me, but I did allow myself to daydream for just a moment of what our lives might have been if . . .

There were so many ifs.

If Raoul had not recognized me, if he hadn't fallen in love with me; if Erik had not frightened me with his anger and his murders, if I had not been so incapable of seeing his love for what it was, if . . .

He was leaning in the doorway watching me.

My hand flew to my throat in a startled reflex; Erik smiled slowly. There was danger in that smile, and I quivered a little under his direct gaze. "You . . . surprised me," I managed softly.

"Distant thoughts, my dear?" He had come nearer, and nearer still, edging on that boundary between too close and not close enough, his long form looming over me in a way that was not quite threatening. Yet.

"Daydreams," I murmured dismissively; I wasn't about to tell him the Erik-centered content of those daydreams!

He raised an eyebrow at me. Before I realized what he was doing, he had taken possession of my hand . . . my left hand, with the ring he had thrown at me still adorning my engagement finger. As he ran his ungloved fingers lightly over mine, I startled myself by arching my eyebrows up at him. "I have had less abrupt proposals, but none quite so memorable," I quipped. I was entirely unprepared for his response. Erik dropped to his knees before me and gently kissed each of my fingers. Instead of stopping there, he turned my hand over and pressed his lips to the warm center of my palm, then trailed his mouth down to lovingly linger against my wrist, as though he was taking the very pulse of my life-blood with his kiss. I shivered at the intimacy of that simple touch; Erik wrapped one arm around my waist and pulled me closer. "Does this mean you aren't angry with me anymore?" I whispered.

He smiled against my wrist, tickling me. "Perhaps." Erik stood and pulled me up with him. "Come. It is time you explained your new situation to the management of my theater."

_Erik_

She was spectacular; I deposited Christine outside of the managers' office and slipped into my customary hiding spot behind the grate. After knocking and being admitted to polite necessities, Christine went straight to the point. "Monsieurs, I want very much to continue here at the Garnier. However, I find myself in need of some rest and peace in order to recover fully from the events of the last year. I am prepared to take on any role you would care for me to fulfill, and will be present at all rehearsals and performances, but at all other times I would wish to remain in my dressing-room, entirely undisturbed."

Andre and Firmin swallowed the entire tale whole, particularly after Christine reassured them that she would inform their patron of her decision herself. Apparently Raoul had already been in the managers' office that morning, spouting obviously untrue nonsense about Christine disappearing again . . .

I grinned. Proof that even a genius can learn from his mistakes.

When she came out, I shadowed her for a few hallways—just in case anyone was watching—then tugged her through one of my trapdoors. Rehearsal had been canceled for that day; heavy rains had made Paris into a watery nightmare for travelers. Soon enough we were once again in my home, and I realized that I had no idea of what to do with her now.

I still was wary of her touch.

But she had worn my ring, as crudely as I had presented it to her.

Christine was so young; too young to make the promises that ring might entail.

Then again, an opera-house does not afford one much of a childhood.

An opera-house with a sheltering angel, on the other hand, did.

I only knew that I wasn't angry with her. And that we were quite suddenly in the music room, the air around us tingling with heat that was not solely generated by our fire. I had been staring at her, I realized; my eyes had taken advantage of my mind's distraction to boldly roam where they would, and my dearly beloved Christine had a pronounced red cast to her cheeks. But she was not looking away, and I was no man if that wasn't hunger I recognized in her gaze, blushing though she may be. Letting a calculated, lazy smile pull at my mouth, I circled her, coming nearer and nearer with each slow turn until I was standing close, mere inches separating us. "I find it difficult to remain angry when the object of my anger is looking at me with such helpless fire in her eyes," I murmured, secretly delighting as she yanked her gaze away from mine. Smirking, I leaned down and almost—almost—kissed her. "Perhaps you would oblige me . . ." I let the sentence hang, then finished it, "with a song?"

I knew memories of the _last_ time she had sang to me in this room, her lips still burning from my foolishly passionate kiss, were foremost in her mind; though Christine's mouth moved, she seemed utterly incapable of formulating a reply. I allowed myself to lean forward the slightest bit and fully press my lips to hers.


	6. Chapter 6

_Christine_

Erik's kiss was sweet, tender—and all the sweeter when he didn't pull away after I tangled my fingers into his hair. This was not a kiss about the passion he had been teasing me with; it was the kiss he might have given me, had I not fainted, the first night he brought me to his home, a gentle kiss, telling more than words could of his love for me. After a moment, we parted, but it was without the pain that had ended our last two kisses. I was still held securely in his arms, and those piercing eyes were searching my own brown gaze. For what? Sincerity? Love? I did not know. I answered the only way I could—the only certain process I knew of for assuring him that I _did_ love him and that I would not be leaving him. "Erik?"

He was instantly wary of me; I could feel his muscles stiffening. "Yes, Christine?" We both knew what I was going to ask; my fingers were tracing the outline of the mask against his face, touching him with a gentleness no other had shown him. For a moment, hope rose in my soul and I actually believed that he would let me back into his heart so easily. The moment ended; Erik jerked his face out of my reach. "No," he said simply. His eyes met mine and the last time I had torn his mask off flashed between us—me, in the peasant garb of Aminta, he in the formal attire and black mask of Don Juan, singing words he had written out of our own love until I reached up and ripped away his identity in front of over a thousand people, right in the middle of the only performance of his life's work—no, forgiveness for that moment would not come easily, and I should not have expected it to. Wordlessly I turned to the shelves and selected a book at random; I had sat down before I realized that it was not written in any language I could recognize.

Any remaining ease between us was gone.

I seem to have a particular talent for shattering tenderness in him. It is not under my command, no more than are the pieces of my heart that cause him to be tender to me in the first place. If I never learn anything else about Erik, I will always know this: I can control neither his love nor his hate. Those are for him alone; the two doors in his heart that I have no conscious influence over. Strange, how it seems I am still their unwitting key, even though he is trying to lock me from them both.

He loved me. I was sure of it, as sure as I was that I loved him. But as he had once told me, fear and love are closely held in the soul, and so are love and hate. Anything could push either of us over the edge from one to the other. I made one more desperate attempt to win his heart back, trying to prove to us both that I was no more the indecisive child who could not handle his all-encompassing love: I sang.

Laying the book aside, I stood and let my voice carry to him everything I could never say.

_Erik_

I have never been capable of turning away from her voice. That perfect pitch, her angelic tones raising from the depths of her soul to caress the air about us with pure sound—no, her voice was the one argument she could make that I _had_ to listen to.

"_Once a lifetime_

_Once a memory_

_Once you were all that I could see_

_Sharing a heart_

_Sharing a soul_

_Sharing all we ever could be_

_Why did I leave_

_Why did you stay_

_Why can't we see past what we were_

_Not an angel_

_Not a demon_

_Nothing other than you and me . . ."_

I refused to react. Her voice trailed off; she had been putting her own lyrics to an old work of mine, and I shivered inside at how well the two fit together. Nothing showed on my face of how I felt; I merely raised an eyebrow. Christine glared at me. "Are you quite finished?" I asked.

"No." I was unprepared for her next words. "_Pitiful creature of darkness—"_

Christine gasped as I forcibly grabbed her wrist and shook her. "Don't you _dare_ sing to me of that night. Do you understand?" How had she made me this angry? Just moments earlier we had been sharing a kiss—and such a kiss!—but her insistence on seeing my face had brought up all the old barriers and all the old memories. Forget the ring, still glittering on her finger; rings, as Christine had so aptly shown me before, can be removed. I could not think of anything she could do to assuage my anger and my hurt at her betrayal; what a fool I had been, to think that merely having her with me again would heal all the wounds.

Tears were streaming down her face, but her gaze was angry. "Let me _go_, Erik," Christine demanded, her voice sharpening. I tightened my grip on her wrist, ignoring how delicate she felt under my touch.

"I asked you a question, _Christine_. Answer it."

"Why should I?" She struggled against my hold, trying to get free, so I spun her around and used my other arm to wrap around her waist, holding her back tightly against my chest. Christine made a praiseworthy attempt to stomp on my foot, but I deftly avoided her and hooked her leg with my own; there would be no more stamping unless she wished to lose her balance completely. "It's only a mask, Erik!"

"Then why," I snarled in her ear, "are you so _obsessed_ with looking beneath it? Does my ruined face hold a twisted fascination for you, my dear? I had no idea you could be that _sick_."

Christine utilized the only weapon left to her—she banged her head back into my chest in frustration. "Sick? Obsessed? I hadn't realized we had started talking about _you_, Erik. Who created a dummy of me? Who made me believe he was an _angel_ so that he could control me? You kidnapped me off a stage in the midst of a show and almost forced me to _marry_ you—not to mention the deaths you caused in _my _name—how dare you talk to me about a sick obsession!"

Deaths I caused—could she really not say 'murders'? Even now? I could feel my fingers squeezing even tighter around her—if one of us wasn't careful, I was _really_ going to hurt her. "At least I knew my own feelings—or have you forgotten that you were willfully playing with _two_ hearts? I may have been—" 'have been', what a laugh, I would be entranced with her till the day I died—"a little too enthusiastic in my pursuit of you, but don't forget _I let you go_."

The last thing I was expecting from her was a bitter laugh. "Let me go? Oh no, Erik; you may have let me go, but I will never be _free_ of you."

"That makes two of us." Not sure who I was more disgusted with—her or myself—I flung Christine onto the couch, none-too-gently. It wasn't the first time I had violently thrown her away from me; that first time she had taken my mask off, for instance . . . at least this time she landed on the couch and not the floor.

What a moment for Nadir to enter—and with that _wretched_ boy at his heels.

_Christine_

I did not hit the couch hard; it was only surprise that caused me to gasp. He was usually so gentle with me that I sometimes forgot Erik's strength.

Dream-like, I watched as Nadir and Raoul came into the room. We had not heard a bell ring; but then, as loud as we had been shouting, it was easy to assume that we had missed it. For a moment I truly did not believe that they were real; then Raoul rushed past Erik and knelt by my side, his hand worriedly stroking my forehead as he glared at my angel of darkness. "Shh, darling, I'm here—are you alright? He hasn't hurt you too badly, has he?"

I heard a growl coming from my already-enraged beloved; a warning that if I did not take control of the situation rapidly, he would make no promises about Raoul's life-expectancy. "Of course I'm fine. Erik would not really harm me." I gently pushed away his hand and sat up.

The Persian raised an eyebrow, looking between Erik and me with a strained expression. I couldn't help but noticed that his hand was casually resting on his cheek—I was not the only one who recognized the mind-frame Erik was in. "If you will permit my contradiction, mademoiselle, that throw looked anything but harmless. And your wrist is bruising."

Erik opened his mouth to say something, but I beat him to it. "I am fine, daroga. Now," I glanced back and forth at Nadir and Raoul, forcing my tone to be even and normal, "was there a reason for your visit?"

I could not decide which of the three looked more stunned. Finally, Raoul managed to stutter, "We . . . were coming to rescue you, Christine." He motioned to the shadows around the music-room. "Surely . . ." Poor Raoul. I had always baffled him; his voice faltered now as he contemplated me. "Surely you didn't _choose_ this, Christine?"

Pain was clearly etched on Erik's features as he closed his eyes. Here we were again; my choice. And he, at least, had no doubts about what that choice would be. I could see him mentally cursing both of us for ever letting me back into his home. "Yes," I told Raoul simply, turning away from the sight of my angel's pain. For once—just once—I was making the decision I should have made the first time Raoul asked me to dinner, and I was going to see it through. "I did, and I still do. I'm sorry, Raoul, but this is where I belong." I resisted the urge to touch his cheek one last time; it would do no good to hurt him further than I already had. "If you gentlemen have no other reason for intruding, I believe my fiancé and I have a discussion we need to finish." I was borrowing Erik's dry tone of voice; at the moment it didn't look as though he would be using it any time soon.

For a moment Nadir stared at me, as though questioning my motives or my sanity—or both—but then he pulled Raoul to his feet. "Even you and I cannot argue with that, my friend," he said, leading my former sweetheart from the room. I could not help but compare the stricken look on Raoul's face to the expression Erik had worn as I left his home the night of _Don Juan_; Raoul was shocked and hurt. Erik had been _devastated_.

Erik. His eyes had opened and he was gazing at me with an expression just as shaken as the ones Nadir and Raoul had given me. I found that I did not want to continue our . . . discussion . . . just then; I had no desire to explain anything to him. Not now; despite what I had told the Persian, my wrist was aching fiercely. I stood, and, ignoring the fact that it was still early afternoon, simply told Erik, "I'm going to bed," before disappearing to lock myself in my room.

**A/N**: I know Erik is a teensy bit violent in this chapter, but sometimes I get sick of writing the perfectly controlled Erik—especially when I'm basing this off the movie. Gerik has control issues. Love him dearly, but he does. Hope it doesn't bug anyone and that you're all still liking this. Thanks for reading and reviewing!

WildPixieChild: Thanks! Another reader always makes my day. : )

Anacari: Thanks, here's another chappie for you—thanks for your faithful reviews!

Mz. Kelsi: Yay! Another reviewer—I'm glad you like it. Here's some more!

AMaskandanAngel: Updating for you, m'dear. Hope you like!

Prying Pandora: Thanks for reviewing (again!). Lol, yes, teasing Erik is very fun to write. Of course, so is AngryErik and SadErik and basically all the other Eriks. . . .


	7. Chapter 7

_Christine_

He had not knocked, but I had heard the quiet thump against my door moments after I shut it, a thump which seemed to indicate someone sitting down and leaning back against my door, patiently waiting for me to come out. Wishing Erik a long, cold night on the floor, I blushed even as I thought: _Perhaps it will cool him off_. If nothing else, such a night could work wonders for his temper.

Or make it simmer. I knew that, as frightening as his rage was, his coolly calculated anger was worse still.

Despite the early hour, I readied myself for bed. I was tired and was not surprised when I fell asleep almost immediately; when I woke, however, I looked at my clock and unhappily realized that only a handful of hours had elapsed.

And I was starving.

The bruises forming on my wrist were throbbing as well, and my bathroom was out of washcloths to wrap around the joint. I crept to the door and listened; there was no sound. I had not heard Erik move away from the door, but if he didn't want me to, I wouldn't have. Nearly six hours had passed; surely he would not still be waiting for me to come out?

Cautiously, I opened the door, and gasped when it revealed Erik quite calmly residing on the floor, his steady hazel eyes watching me.

_Erik_

I was such a fool.

I couldn't even be angry when Nadir and Raoul entered; all I could do was stare at the bruises on her wrist after my old friend pointed them out, a gruesome, black-and-blue silhouette of my grip on Christine.

My claim to have never injured a woman was, it seemed, at an end.

She would return to him, and I would once again be alone in my darkness. As it should be, I had realized; no matter how I loved her, no matter how deeply and thoroughly she was in my heart and soul, she did not belong to me. She couldn't; Christine was an angel of purity, and I think everyone knew what I was. That I had actually harmed her released any claim I may have had on her heart. Despising myself for allowing her to crack open my armor once again, I turned my back and let Christine return to her light.

The world spun.

I was her choice. I could hardly understand what she was saying; all I knew was that Christine had sent the Vicomte and the Daroga away, that she had stayed . . . and that I was utterly and thoroughly unworthy of her.

Which was about when I heard the door to her room lock.

I stared at it.

If Christine was going to make a habit of turning my life inside out with her arguments and her mad decisions, the least she could do was tell me _why_. Because I had no idea, and she was driving me out of my mind.

Women, I have decided, are utterly inexplicable. _Especially _former chorus-girls.

I settled down in front of her door to wait. I knew my Christine; she had been growing as a direct result of my—not always positive—influence on her life, but she still did not possess the patience to win a battle of wills with me. Not yet, at least.

I lost track of time, staring at nothing and waiting for her to emerge. I may even have drifted off for a while; my mind was spinning through a tangle of thoughts. Our fight and her choice to remain seemed so entirely at odds to one another that I half-convinced myself they were part of two separate storylines; one could not logically lead to the other . . . she had called me obsessed; she had spoken of my murders. Both were correct and neither would have caused her to live in this dark underworld with me . . .

Fortunately, my face was quite clear of these thoughts when she did, at last, open the door. I smiled inwardly; she was shocked at my presence. We stared at each other for a painfully silent period, then Christine gestured vaguely toward the kitchen. "I was . . . hungry," she said at last, her voice subdued.

I spread one arm in an expansive movement, pointing to the same part of the house in an open invitation. "By all means."

She stared at me, and I realized my legs were stretched out before me and crossed at the ankles, a barrier to her progress. I defeated the urge to pull them back. If she was hungry enough, she would have no trouble stepping over me, as indecorous and even intimate as such as simple motion seemed.

"You can't make anything _easy_, can you?" Christine demanded as she lifted the skirt of her nightgown slightly and took a long step over me.

Once she was safely across, I lazily reached out and lightly grasped the hem of her nightgown between my fingers. "There's a fee, of course."

Christine froze and looked down at me. "A fee?"

"For crossing the bridge." I indicated my legs, nearly lost in the darkness. "Sit," I suggested—well, commanded—as I tugged on the thin fabric in my hand.

Her dark eyes were blazing at me. Christine angry is truly a sight to behold, and I had been blessed with it so far twice in one day. "What might that fee be?" She demanded as she slowly sank down, sitting far enough away that I would have had to stretch to retain my hold on her gown.

"Not there," I remarked in a pleasant tone. "Here." I gestured toward my side; her jaw clenched, but Christine scooted next to me. She sat with her knees bent, her modestly-covered legs curving back toward her side, and my breath caught a little at her grace.

I trailed my hand lightly down her back, reveling in the warmth of her skin hidden just beneath the thin, silky material of her nightgown, before gently wrapping my arm around her. Christine's eyes had closed at my touch; she leaned her head against my shoulder. I watched her, absorbed in the translucent skin of her cheeks, the pale rose of her lips, until her eyelids flickered open and we were left staring at each other.

"Why don't you," I whispered, stroking her jaw with one finger, "explain to me precisely what happened this afternoon?"

Christine stiffened under my arm. "I had thought it was obvious."

"Not to me."

She pulled away. "I'm hungry, Erik. Let me go."

Reflexively, my arm tightened around her; then the bruises on her wrist caught the light and glared up at me. I swore quietly and yanked away from Christine as though she was burning. "Go," I muttered, turning away from her. "_Go_."

"Erik?" Her voice was confused, uncertain; I hated hearing the pain in it.

"You wanted me to let you go," I replied shortly, fighting to keep my own voice under control and knowing that I was failing miserably. "So _go_." I paused, and more gently, added. "You need to eat."

She still hesitated. "You aren't sending me away?"

_Oh_. "Never," I told her hoarsely. "I already made that mistake once, and you can see how well it turned out." An apathetic gesture of my hand indicated our current situation. Christine nodded and silently stood to go to the kitchen; when she returned, I was gone.

My coffin room was abysmally cold; I nervously paced, still trying to make sense of the afternoon. Presently, I heard her door close; this only reassured me a little. She hadn't left . . . that was good. She hadn't left.

I was still pacing when I heard her scream.

_Christine_

It was a nightmare of blood and death and black pain, and it woke me with my own voice screaming Erik's name. He was there, suddenly, in my room, holding me as I shook. That rich, deep angel's voice soothed me as he carried me into the music-room, the warmest part of the house, and sat on the couch. Erik held me in his lap until my tremors had ceased; I curled up against his chest, desperate for comfort.

"Easy," he whispered, "easy. You're all right; I'm here."

And it was true. I was fine as long as he was near.

Maybe I should tell him that.

"I love you," I replied softly, leaning my forehead against his neck. "I love you."

Erik froze completely and utterly. Had I never said that? I looked back on all the words we had exchanged, from the first time he sang to me until this very moment. How was it possible that I had never said those words to him, when I had loved him from the beginning?

"I love you, Erik," I repeated, wrapping my arms around him. Heaven on earth, had _no one_ ever said that to him?

After what seemed like an eternity, he pressed a kiss into my hair. "You're delirious," Erik murmured to himself.

"No." I lifted my head to stare at him. "I love you."

He answered by gently taking my arm and holding my bruised wrist up for us both to see. "You cannot. I forbid you to love the sort of _monster_ who would do this to you. If that boy had touched you the way I have, I would have killed him. Do you understand, Christine? _I would have killed him_ for harming you like this."

"Don't you dare, Erik," I retorted sharply, taking his face in my hands. "Don't you _dare_ leave me again."

"Why?" I stared at him, stunned. Erik repeated, "Why? Why not free us both? Why did you stay, Christine? After everything we said today, why did you stay here?"

"They're called 'lovers' spats' for a reason," I answered, finding myself blushing at using the word _lovers_ to describe us. "We're allowed to fight. It doesn't mean I'm going to walk away; it doesn't mean I don't love you, it doesn't mean you don't love me. It just means that there are things we need to talk about." I hesitated, gazing into his eyes, then timidly asked, "You do love me . . . don't you?"

Erik closed his eyes and groaned. "How can you ask that?" He questioned softly. "After everything, how can you ask? _Christine, I love you . . ._"

I smiled and cut off his song with a kiss. For the moment, all was well.

----

Wow, guys, thanks for all the reviews! They make me happy. To readers of Beyond . . . I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I know I shouldn't update Voice until I have another chapter up for Beyond, but I'm struggling a little with the next chapter in that, and this just sort of flowed out . . . I'll update the other in a hurry, I promise!

intoxicated by eriks music: Grin Hey Savy, glad you like this so far. Pizza is good! Yeah, Erik has a few issues he needs to work through . . .

Mz. Kelsi: Thanks! And yep, Erik, as much as I love his sweet fluffy side, is not always either sweet or fluffy. Besides . . . it's kind of fun to write EvilErik.

phantomlovin4ever: Thanks much for liking the chapter despite AngryErik--here's an update for you!

Anacari: T'ankyee kindly. Continuing for your (hopeful) reading delight . . .

ChristinO: Thanks! Yep, I'm planning on finishing this . . . not quite sure where or how, but it will have a definite ending.

AliciaRoseM: Thank you!

Marykate: Thanks -grin-. Here's another bit, glad you think this is interesting so far!


	8. Chapter 8

_Christine _

Kisses trailed down my cheek and the side of my neck, lingering across my collarbone to the hollow of my throat. Erik's lips made their way back up the sensitive center of my neckline until he could savagely claim my mouth again with his own. When we finally parted, both of us were breathing hard; I sighed in contentment and settled down against his shoulder. Only when I tasted blood did I realize that the hard edge of Erik's mask had left a shallow scratch across my skin. I looked up at him, questioning; his eyes were stricken as he brushed a cool finger along the tiny injury, wiping away the blood. "Christine . . ." he groaned softly. "When will I stop hurting you?"

I tried not to smile; he had handed me a perfect bargaining chip. "This," I held up my wrist, "and this scratch both are the work of just one thing, do you realize that?" Erik eyed me warily; he knew I did not mean him. I reached up and tapped the mask.

He yanked away and scowled down at me. I could see defeat in his eyes, but my angel has never been one to give in easily. "Yes," he retorted. "They are both the direct result of your confounded stubbornness."

"Stubborn?" I demanded in disbelief. "_I'm_ stubborn?"

That sensuous mouth twitched. "Inescapably so." I glared at him; Erik just chuckled and traced my lips with his thumb. His gaze became serious as he contemplated me, and I felt myself blushing under the sheer intensity of the emotion in his eyes. "Do you know why Allah forbade the nightingale to love the rose?" Erik asked softly.

I drew in a sharp breath; he had told me many versions of that story, and none of them ended well. Even then, when I still believed him an angel . . . even then had he been trying to convince one or both of us that the tie between our souls could not exist? My beloved saw me as his pure white rose, and he had always been my nightingale . . . I shook my head, not wanting to know the answer.

"Some say that it was out of cruelty or jealousy, or simple disbelief that a flower and a bird could share love." Gently, Erik tilted my head up so that I was forced to meet his eyes. "But the real reason, _mon ange_, is that merciful Allah knew what I have always told you; for some lovers, there can be no happy endings."

My mouth was trembling, and I could feel tears coming into my eyes. He sounded so certain, so final; somewhere between our past and our present, Erik had lost the ability to believe in _us_. How could I change his miserable surety, when it had always been he who believed, he who knew in the core of his soul that we were one? I did not have the strength to keep our love alive without him, as he had done so long without me. "Can't you care enough to try?" I whispered hopelessly.

"Christine. You know that whether or not I care is not the issue."

"Then it's that you don't trust me. We both know you shouldn't, after all." My voice was hoarse. Would we ever get past my betrayals?

He was losing patience with me. "Christine," Erik growled, then suddenly leaned forward and kissed each of my cheeks, drawing away the tears that had fallen down them. "I trust you, _cherie_. You stayed with me tonight; for that, I would trust you to the ends of the earth."

I held him close when he tried to pull back, seeking his lips with mine. He groaned into my mouth and drew away sharply. I closed my eyes. "Then why won't you believe—why won't you let me love you? I thought that was what you wanted. Why else would you let me come down here, let me come home?"

"Maybe I thought I could become something I am not. I will never be a flower, my love, meant to bloom in daylight; I am a creature of the darkness."

Opening my eyes, I stared at him. "Then let me into your night."

Erik's jaw tightened noticeably. "That I will not do."

"Please remove your mask?"

"No."

I blinked at him slowly, knowing my mouth was drooping into a pout and being utterly incapable of stopping it. "You once promised me that you could deny me nothing I truly wanted . . . "

"That was before you began to want things which are not good for you to have."

This stubborn refusal of his was becoming annoying. "I want us _both_ to know that I love you, Erik—with and without your mask. Do not make me take it off despite you, because I think we both know you could not forgive a third such betrayal."

He closed his eyes. We were silent for a moment; then slowly, he took my hand and brought it up to the cold white porcelain of his mask. Trembling, I gently peeled it off and set it on the couch next to us, my eyes never leaving his face. His poor, poor skin; I could tell that the mask irritated his already-rough cheek, chafing at the scars and the droopy pouch of his right eye. Erik's face never had been a pretty sight; but even the first time I had seen it, his rage had terrified me more than his looks. And now . . . now I found that I would not have too much trouble getting used to how he looked without the mask. Yes, the right side of his face was ravaged; but it was still the face of a man I loved.

I gently lay my hand against his right cheek. Erik's eyes opened at me, blazing as though he expected me to scream or faint; he blinked when he realized that I was calmly looking at him, without revulsion or fear. "I love you," I repeated.

Finally, after staring at me for what felt like forever, Erik sighed and gave in, nuzzling desperately against my hand. "I can't win against you, can I?" He asked. I could feel him shivering beneath my touch; of course he was. No other woman had ever stroked his twisted face so gently, and I was determined no other ever would.

"Do you really want to?" I replied. My angel smiled and closed his eyes again, this time in pleasure, as I lightly caressed his features.

"The concept of losing," he murmured, "is becoming more agreeable." Erik stood quickly enough that I wasn't aware of him moving until he was walking toward my room, holding me in his arms. He tucked me into my bed and lightly kissed me, murmuring, "Sweet dreams, my angel."

I held onto his hand, suddenly feeling shy. "Erik . . ." I replied softly. When he turned to look at me and the hand restraining him, he raised an eyebrow. "I would not have nightmares if you stayed with me," I blurted. Hang propriety; I had already spent many nights in his home, after all, and I trusted him. He would not take advantage of me.

Besides—I did not want to be alone.

Moving slowly, as though he wasn't quite certain this was real, Erik slipped beneath the covers of my bed and gathered me against his chest. I sighed in contentment and closed my eyes, secure in the comfort of his arms.

_Erik_

She fell asleep quickly, and I was left with the guilty pleasure of being able to hold her close, drinking in her pale face as she slept. I idly began to play with her hair, enjoying it's softness as I had never been able to before.

I shouldn't allow her to do this to me. I should have never brought her down here. If I hadn't, I would not have hurt her. I groaned again, quietly, at the thought of the bruises on her wrist and the light scratch near her mouth; she deserved better than someone who harmed her when he wasn't even trying to.

But she had not flinched away from my face. She was the first, ever, to do that; even Madame Giry had only seen it once, in the carnival, before the disastrous night of _Don Juan_.

True love, it is said, will not be denied. Even by the lovers. So I allowed myself to drift to sleep bolding my beloved in my arms; tomorrow would bring its own trials, but for tonight, we were safe in each other's hearts.

**--Chapter End-- **

**A/N**: Thanks everyone for the reviews! I was wondering if anyone has any little plot bunnies they would like to see appear in this, as I honestly do not know where it is going. The first chapter wrote itself from an image in my mind, and the rest has just sort of followed along. Now I'm not quite certain where to take it. Maybe another opera, another confrontation with Raoul . . . I don't know. So tell me where you would like this to go; I can't promise to use any or all of the ideas, but maybe you will jump-start my head. Thanks a bunch!

Elle1617: Thanks, glad you like my Erik!

Anacari: Ahh, Gerik . . . mmmm, yummy. Thanks for thinking that I'm portraying him accurately; I'm trying to! Thanks for your reviews, as always; they make the writing go (slightly) faster. Here's more for you!

Clever Lass: Heyo! Yeah, I kinda like writing violent Erik . . . and as this one is the most temperamental of my three dear boys, IMHO, you'll probably be seeing his wrathful side a couple more times. Muwhahahaha. As ever, thanks for the reviews! (how's the wedding scene coming for Letters, btw? Any progress? -hopes-)

Chellyh: Lol, I'm glad you like it. Erik's sense of humor is always one of the things I love best about him, so I truly try to portray it right—thanks for noticing!

Lady Skywalker: Raoul might indeed make another appearance (though NOT a comeback, lol). Here's a little more of semi-fluffy Erik for you! -hands platter of FluffyErik over- Thanks for your review, and for liking this little tale so far!

The Phantom: Wow, thanks, O.G.! Happy reviewers make my day—don't suppose you have any ideas for a 'disaster beyond imagination' for me, do you?

Phantomadark: Thanks for liking this so much! Here's more for you!

Mz. Kelsi: Yep, I figured that he needed to work through a few things first before really allowing the whole love-stuff to happen . . . after all, this is a very reserved man who is in love with a woman who has already betrayed him. Multiple times. Thanks for liking it, and for reviewing—here's a little more for you!

blahblahblah27: Lol, cool username. Thanks for reading and reviewing!

Prying Pandora: -Grin- Of course. You don't honestly expect me to leave him in peace for long, do you? Why, when torturing him is so much fun? Yes, this is definitely one of my stronger Christine's . . . though the other two are developing backbones as well. Hope it's not OOC, but I figure, after everything she went through just on the night of _Don Juan_, she's gotta have grown up at least a little. Glad you like it—thanks!

intoxicated by eriks music: Hey Savs, here's your update! Glad you like the Erik door scene—I could just see it in my head as I wrote it. Thanks a bunch for reviewing!


	9. Finale Part 1

**Author's Note**:

My (brief and limited) return: I had time over Christmas and decided to see if I couldn't finish these up at least a little for you. Call it a late Christmas present, one that I hope you enjoy thoroughly. This is the end of Voice, posted in two parts.

If I hadn't mentioned it earlier, this Gerik belongs entirely to AWL, Joel S., and Gerry Butler—who, I think, understands Erik a lot more than we may realize.

Also kudos to Leroux and Kay for Erik's home, because (other than the candles) I am not a fan of the movie/play "lair" that is, in effect, a strange swan bed and an organ put on the shore of a lake. And Erik _always_ uses a Punjab lasso in my stories, not a piece of rope(!).

Can you tell, as much as I love it, that I have issues with a few of the movie's details?

Thanks go to all those who have so graciously supported me in my decision to quit fanfiction and to you, the reviewers and readers, because you're awesome!

I responded to the longer reviews below, but general thanks—you guys truly do make writing so much easier, a hundred thankyous!—go to:

satinzevi89, grotto1, PhantomLover05, Pertie, blahblahblah27, onelastchance, Anacari, Angel or Demon, and miffster. Merci!

Computerfreak101: This one is for you. Thank you for your review; it gave me the push I needed to get the last little bits of this chapter written. Merci! I'm glad that you enjoyed this story so far. Since I am finishing the stories, I think I will leave them up as being complete, but thank you for the suggestion. And again, thank you so much for your praise; it's good to know that others like my writing. Thanks!

ChristinO: Sorry I couldn't look at the wallpaper! As for the eyes . . . I can't remember what I wrote grin This is the Gerik, so he has whatever eye color Gerry does—blue-gray, you say? It looked hazel to me, but okay. Thanks so much for reading!

phantomlovin4ever: Steph, thanks for the ideas and, as ever, for reading and reviewing. You've been great! (oh, I know, I HATE that part of the movie too! Why did they put that in? Grrr!)

angelmuse: My dear, you're going to make my head swell! What happened to your emails? I hope life didn't get too busy for you! (but then . . . maybe it was my turn to write. Oops! Sorry!). Yes, this Erik is quite possibly my darkest . . . and yet, I love him dearly. Darkness is part of his appeal, after all. And this is undoubtedly, in my opinion, my strongest/darkest Christine . . . he changed her, after all, for better or for worse; she is never going to be 'just Christine' ever again. Part of him will always be singing in her head. Thank you so much, m'dear, for your constant encouragement and help! Your praise means a great deal to me, because I know how much you mean it. Thank you so much! May a certain masked man always haunt your dreams . . .

seven-coloured-flower: Thanks for reading! I agree with you completely about Raoul OOC stories; unless Raoul's falling is done well (and there are a few of these out there), I don't really care for them (unless they're just plain entertaining; in that case, I just suspend disbelief). And thank you for comparing this Erik to Kay's! Kay!Erik is my favorite and is where a lot of my personal ideas about Erik stem from, so I guess that's where the similarity begins. Thank you! Cool username, btw; may I ask where it is from?

Terpsichore314: Thanks for the suggestions! Heh, I actually decided to keep them in the cellar . . . I can see Christine seeing it as a very sheltering place, somewhere she would not want to leave, and of course Erik is helpless against her wishes. And thanks for reminding me that I needed to tie back to the title; merci!

Lady Skywalker: Thanks for the suggestions! Thank you for understanding and being supportive. If I was leaving this unfinished, I might eventually have taken it down as you suggested, but I think it is finished now, so I believe that I will leave it up as a completed story. Thank you for reviewing!

Roselight Writer: Thank you! I'm glad that even an RC shipper has enjoyed this so far. Merci!

And now . . . I give you the part one of two of the finale to _A Voice without a Soul_.

_Christine_

I awoke comfortable and safe and alone. The door clicked shut as I sat up; next to me on the bed, Erik had left a hollowed-out place that was still warm. I groaned as I realized my dark Angel must have noticed me regaining consciousness and fled.

Biting my tongue to hold back a sampling of the words I occasionally heard Erik mutter under his breath, I swiftly stood and pulled on a light, lacy robe over my nightgown as I rushed to the door.

Locked.

"Erik!" Frustration sharpened my tone; I furiously bruised my fist against the offending door. Silence was my only answer.

I had been leaning dejectedly against the cool wood for nearly ten minutes when the door gave way. Startled, I stumbled forward, and only Erik's quick reflexes saved me from becoming an ungainly pile at his feet. "Christine?" he asked worriedly, holding me up by my elbows. His mask gave me a baleful stare; from his gleaming hair to his formal dress, Erik had turned his appearance from the gentle, _human _man who had spent the night at my side back into the Phantom I knew all too well. Behind the mask, his eyes were peering at me in shadowed concern.

If it had not been Erik holding me, I would have jerked away angrily. His fear-bred desire to hide upset me; it stung. But it _was_ Erik with me, and I had realized last night as he held me that I would have to be very careful to not withdraw from him in anger or pain. My beloved had seen far too much of rejection in his life; it was up to me to teach him that I would not spurn him again. It would be a long and probably painful process, and it meant that I had to watch my actions much more carefully than most women in love, but I knew success would be worth every time I bit my tongue and, as now, stepped closer to him instead of drawing away.

"Erik," I murmured softly, and leaned up to lightly press a kiss to his cheek. I felt him sigh, unnamed tension flowing away from his shoulders as he pulled me close.

"I am sorry if I frightened you," Erik answered in a quiet voice, nodding slightly at my door.

Only when he had brought the subject up did I allow myself to gently touch his mask, and in the most tender tone I could manage, ask, "I thought we took the walls down last night, Erik."

Despite my efforts to disguise it, he turned a wry gaze down at me. "You're angry."

I considered that for a moment, my eyes fixed on his. Laying my head against his broad chest, I sighed and opted for honesty. He always knew when I tried to lie. "It hurt." Feeling annoyingly similar to a parrot, I repeated my concern from last night in a low voice. "It felt like you didn't trust me."

"Christine—" Erik paused to gently take my face in his long hands, forcing me to look up at him. "The mask is part of who I am." He seemed to bite back another comment; a wicked look passed across his features, and for no reason at all I felt warmth rising in my face. "Compare it," he said instead, "to Madame Giry going somewhere without her cane. Utterly out of character."

Curious despite my blush, I tilted my head to one side. "What were you about to say?"

This amused him greatly, if his decidedly heated smile was any indication. "Nothing your innocent ears need hear."

I hid, pressing my face into his shoulder and listening to his deep chuckle. Attempting to return to our original subject, I protested, "But you weren't _going_ anywhere. You were here, at home, with me." Shy in the face of the playful mood he was in, I mumbled "I don't like it when you leave me," knowing his keen hearing would pick up the words.

I barely heard the quiet tap of the mask being set on a nearby shelf before Erik lifted my chin and warmly melded his mouth to mine. Words were ineloquent compared to the sweet fire of his kiss, both his gentleness and his passion assuring me of his love and understanding. And I had thought that, in leaving me that morning, he was the one in need of reassurance . . .

Pulling back just far enough to study my gaze, Erik raised his good eyebrow at me. I smiled in response, and was rewarded with a sight I had seen too rarely: Erik's beautiful mouth widening in a grin that held only happiness in place of his usual mocking cruelty or light sarcasm.

"Please don't lock me in my room again," I requested, stroking his scarred right cheek with my thumb.

He flicked a mischievous glance between me and the doorway open behind me; I berated myself for giving him inspiration even as I locked my arms tightly around his neck. "You _wouldn't_, Erik!"

_Erik_

"Oh, wouldn't I?" I teased, swinging her up into my arms and turning towards the kitchen. Absentmindedly, I replaced my mask. It was considerate of her, to cling so firmly to me; Christine was too light to be a burden, but her tight grasp did make carrying her easier.

Then again, her grip probably grew more from a desire to avoid becoming a prisoner in her chambers than from any consideration for me carrying her.

Settling Christine onto the table, I turned away from her to search through the cupboards. Not for food, however; when I faced her again, I had retrieved a small jar of bruise salve.

Tenderly, my eyes never leaving hers, I took her hand and turned it over to expose the purple marks I had left on her wrist. Christine flinched a little, when I began to lightly rub the salve onto her skin; I froze and watched her steadily, hoping that my eyes were telling her how much hurting her hurt me. She covered my hand on her arm with her own. "I'm sorry," Christine whispered. "Keep going."

I pulled away from her, turning to lean heavily against the counter. Without looking, I knew she winced at my sharp, bitter laugh. "_You _are sorry." I repeated disbelievingly.

Her bare feet made no noise as she slipped off the table, but I felt her warmth as she wrapped her uninjured arm around my waist and settled herself against my back. We stayed motionless for a few moments; then, my sweet young girl apparently decided that wasn't enough. Wiggling closer, Christine insinuated herself between me and the counter until she was contentedly curled up against my chest. Wrapping my arms around her, I sighed into her hair. "We have a long road ahead, don't we?" I asked softly.

Christine leaned up to nuzzle her nose against mine—or at least, the side of mine that was skin instead of porcelain. I had to smile; the tip of her delicate nose was ice cold. "Yes," Christine agreed, her lips brushing mine as she spoke. "But can't you see how far we've come since yesterday?"

Mmm. Yesterday. Yesterday, when we still hadn't admitted our emotions to each other, yesterday when we had fought, when she had chosen to stay . . . yes, we had made progress since she had questioned my entirely honorable intentions yesterday morning.

Well. Mostly honorable.

I glanced down at her and realized her pale skin had once more gained a faint red cast; she wouldn't quite meet my eyes. "Yes?" I asked, amused.

"Nothing," Christine replied too quickly, and I grinned. Apparently, I wasn't the only one who remembered how I had—albeit cruelly—teased her that past morning.

Turning us, I disentangled one arm from Christine's waist in order to reach the little pot of salve. She lifted her wrist, and again I began to gently rub the mixture onto her bruises, doing my best to ignore her wince. I finished as quickly as possible and leaned down to kiss her palm. "Better?" I murmured against her warm, soft skin.

"Yes, thank you," she answered, smiling up at me. Our eyes met and held; I immediately became aware, as I hadn't before, that Christine was wearing only a thin nightgown and robe. My traitorous gaze must have alerted her to the tenor of my thoughts, for she ducked her head to escape.

"Christine," I murmured, making my voice low and warm. Apprehension struggled against desire in her features as she lifted her head again to meet my stare. I grinned. "It might be best if you dressed, my dear, while I see if there is anything in this house passably edible."

"_Oh_. Yes." was Christine's only reply. Still blushing faintly, she quickly left in the direction of her room.

_Christine_

Scoundrel.

He was an utterly unrepentant scoundrel . . . and I loved it. The sparks in his eyes as he said my name had made shivers course down my skin.

When I returned to the kitchen, fully—even prudishly—dressed, Erik was sitting at the table picking at a piece of toast, his thoughts quite obviously elsewhere. I sat down next to him and reached for an orange, my eyes never leaving his face. When he didn't immediately respond, I smiled and contented myself with merely watching him. Erik had removed his jacket and shoes; I hadn't the faintest idea why he had even put them on in the first place. He sat barefoot in his beloved black trousers and a dress shirt exactly as pure a white as his mask. With his hair slicked back and his sleeves pushed up, he had a homey appeal that made me catch my breath; the mask added an air of reserved mystery to him, but even without it I realized I would have found him incredibly . . . attractive. Scarred, yes, badly . . . but there was no denying either the appeal of his forceful personality or the unmarked half of his face.

In the midst of my unabashed gawking, his gaze flicked to mine. The look of adoration on my face seemed to confuse him; therefore, he ignored it. "Christine," my beloved spoke slowly, "I wonder if you have . . . entirely thought this through."

I didn't like the stoic cast to his features.

Following his gaze, I glanced at the black-stoned ring adorning my wedding finger. The ring had become so much a part of me in the last two days that I had almost forgotten I was wearing it.

"No," I said simply. Erik raised his eyes to mine in question. "You don't get to back out, Erik. You asked me to marry you, and while it was a little belated, I accepted."

"I don't recall asking you," he retorted.

He was becoming entirely too ingrained into my personality; I could feel a twisted smile lifting the corners of my mouth. "_Start a new life with me, buy his freedom with your love. Refuse me and you send your lover to his death. This is the choice; this is the point of no return!_" I quoted at him. Erik scowled at me ferociously; I refused to acknowledge it. "'Start a new life with me' seems pretty clear, and you did put me into a wedding dress, if my memory is correct."

His icy glare was burning into my eyes; the arms folded across his chest indicated his stubborn refusal to see my point. Softening my voice, I added, "_Anywhere you go, let me go too_ . . ." and reached out to lay my hand against his arm.

"Christine," Erik growled. We stared at each other; after a moment, he sighed and gently took my hand. "Christine, please. I'm _trying_ to be—to do what is right."

Hearing what he hadn't said, I stood and closed the distance between us, settling into his lap. "You _are_ good."

He glanced at me, a teasing smile briefly playing across his lips. "A task," Erik continued, "that you are constantly making difficult." His hand trailed lightly up my back, chasing shivers along my spine and making me smile sheepishly for a moment before refocusing on our discussion.

"Erik, why are you worried?" I looked down at him and gently ran my fingers along his cheek. "I trust you. I love you. I _want_ to marry you. And I know," I added dryly, "that you want to marry me."

He had the grace to blush. Laughing softly, I kissed his forehead; Erik sighed and buried the unmasked half of his face into my neck, his arms holding me close. "Have you thought about it, Christine? Where we'll live, _how_ we'll live?"

"Here, and very happily."

"You were not meant to live in a dank hole under an opera-house with a madman, Christine."

I shook him lightly. "You are not mad. And I love this house. I can keep my contract easily enough—the managers don't care what I do, as long as I sing for them."

"They should be grateful for the opportunity to have your voice gracing their otherwise talentless stage," Erik replied shortly.

Smiling at his defense of my voice—which was, after all, at least half his creation—I disagreed. "My voice caused them unending troubles. I was surprised that they still wanted me back."

The left side of his face still nuzzling my neck, Erik cast a flat look at me from his right eye. Since all I could see was the menacing white mask, his exasperated gaze was uniquely threatening. Undoubtedly, he knew this and was using it to his advantage, but I was powerless to entirely shake off the effect. "You misspoke, dear one. You meant to say, of course, that _I _caused them unending troubles."

I was silent. It was so easy to forget how little I knew of the man holding me; unbidden, Joseph Buquet's lecherous face came into my mind, twisted almost beyond recognition by the throes of his death.

"Christine."

Erik's voice pulled me from the horrifying image in my mind; he had drawn back from me, his even stare telling me that he knew exactly where my thoughts had been. The dual halves of his face seemed, in that moment, to reflect the dual sides of his nature; one cold and imperious, the brilliant, dangerous control of his mask against the equally dangerous darkness of his fierce and passionate soul. His eyes caught and held mine; trembling, I was unable to look away. I saw fire and sorrow in that brutal gaze.

They seared me.

He seared me.

Erik imprisoned me just long enough that we both knew I could not have broken away, and then wearily closed his eyes to release me.

I think he expected me to run from him.

He had not yet realized that the time for me to flee was long past. I had tried it once, and that solution had only caused us pain.

_Erik_

When she didn't pull back, I sighed. "So much for being good," I muttered caustically.

"Don't, Erik. Please."

I wondered what she had been thinking of—the grand tragedy of the "fallen" chandelier, or the more intimate sorrow of Buquet and Piangi's deaths?

Of course, the chandelier couldn't really be called a _tragedy_, as the thing was monstrous and deserved to shatter . . .

Regardless, I knew Christine well enough to guess that the single murders, the calculated deaths of men she had known, hit her far harder than the dubious misfortune of the chandelier. Never mind that Buquet had been a drunken menace to every girl in the dormitory or that Piangi had never treated her with anything less than disdain; Christine mourned them just the same.

I forced my voice to be as soft and gentle as I could make it, wrestling with my self-control to banish any hint of menace from my tone or the lines of my face; I even laid aside my mask. Reaching out to stroke her cheek—oh-so-lightly, the faintest of touches—I met her eyes and murmured, "Christine, you do know that you can ask me anything? I will not be angry with you."

She did not, to my surprise, ask the question I could feel lying between us—_why_—but instead did me the courtesy of first, so nearly silent that I almost didn't hear it, questioning whether or not I actually committed the crimes I was accused of. My girl—my brave, brave Angel—glanced away for a moment, but her eyes steadily returned to mine when she asked, "Did you kill them, Erik?"

We both knew the answer, of course. I closed my eyes to escape the battered hope in her gaze, then forced myself to open them and simply reply, "Yes."

_Christine_

I had known. Of course I had. I had always known, from the moment I saw Joseph Buquet swing down to the stage, who killed him. I had seen that thin, deadly lasso in Erik's home, and knew it was so curious a piece of workmanship that no other person in the Opera House could possibly possess one. I even saw Erik wield that lasso against Raoul, the night of _Don Juan_, after he had used it to kill Piangi; logically, I shouldn't have needed to ask.

Still, I had allowed myself to hope that, somehow, the man I loved was not responsible for those deaths.

"Oh, Erik," I whispered brokenly, laying my hand against the distorted skin of his right cheek. "Oh, _Erik_." His eyes were watching me, haunted, but I knew that he was only sorrowing for the pain his actions had caused me. Did he even feel regret for the actions themselves?

I started to ask 'why', but my vocal cords wouldn't obey me; instead of shaping words, my mouth trembled and my voice came out in a pitiful whimper. My vision blurred as enormous, painful teardrops filled my eyes, and I began to shake as the first hot beads of water flowed down my cheeks.

_Erik_

I watched, helpless, as tears ran from Christine's eyes; bitterly, I knew that it was not my place to comfort _this_ grief. My poor Christine . . . she had wanted an angel to share heaven with, but all I could offer her was my inner demon, damned before we met for my crimes against the human race.

She sagged against me, her sobs coming harder now, and despite knowing my own unworthiness I wrapped my arms tightly around her. Comfort she needed, and I was all the comfort to be had. "Christine, please don't cry," I begged quietly, kissing her forehead.

Tears began to form in my own eyes as she wept; how I hated that my actions had hurt her!

I leaned my forehead against hers, my tears dropping to her cheeks. We seemed bound together, neither able to move as Christine mourned my soul and I grieved for her pain, until I broke the tableau by pressing my lips to her forehead again. I began to desperately cover her face with kisses, all the while repeating a stream of entreaties. "I'm sorry, Christine, please don't cry. Please, _mon ange_, stop crying. Christine, I'm sorry, Christine, please . . . "

Her breath hitched as I briefly touched my lips to hers, and I immediately pulled away. I had gotten lost in comforting her; of course she didn't want a killer kissing her.

Christine reached for me and held my face in her smooth, gentle hands. "Erik, why are you crying?" Her voice was hoarse, but steady.

"Because I've managed to hurt you. Again. Because I cause you pain." I answered quickly and honestly.

"Erik," she whispered, and I shuddered at the tenderness in her tone. "Oh, Erik. Don't cry because of me." Christine's eyes were locked onto mine. "Erik . . . cry for them. For the lives you took from them, not for the sorrow it causes me." Her thumbs lightly caught my tears in two loving strokes. The pain in her gaze was demanding an answer. "Erik, please, tell me why."

No.

She was wrong, when she said I wasn't crazy. I had been, then—out of my mind with fear over losing her. My excuses for killing Buquet and Piangi were paltry at best; Buquet had seen my face in an unguarded moment and was in my way, Piangi I needed out of commission so that I could perform Don Juan's role. The reason, the true reason, behind both of their deaths was simply that I had been consumed with fear over the possibility that I might lose Christine. I learned at a young age to translate my fear into deadly action; it surprises me still that the Vicomte de Chagny did not die by my hand during those six months.

And I would not tell Christine that my love for her had been the causes of those deaths.

Did I regret them?

Yes. Deeply. Despite my many attempts to assert the contrary, I was human; I knew how precious life was, even a life as tormented as mine. I had not spent all the time between Christine's leaving my home and her return to it mourning the loss of her. I had had ample time to bitterly berate myself for the atrocities I had committed. Buquet and Piangi were not the first men I had stolen life from, but they were the first I had killed in anything except what I considered self-defense, and I truly had grieved for them.

I told Christine this, in halting words, leaving out my reason for such depravity; when I finished, we had both wept again—me for the men I had so callously destroyed, and Christine for the fact that I could feel remorse at all.


	10. Finale Part 2

_Christine_

Outside of our home, life and time continued at their unabated paces; though we held each other for as long as possible, soon it was time for me to report to the stage for rehearsals. My heart still ached at the thought of Buquet and Piangi—and the other deaths Erik had caused, for though he hadn't precisely said so, I knew they were not the first men he killed—but at least I knew that Erik did indeed regret killing them.

It wasn't much. But for someone who had been frightened that her fiancé was a cold, unrepentant murderer, it was enough.

I loved him still. Erik would own my heart until it stopped beating, and at that knowledge my soul split into halves of sorrow and joy, for I knew both his cruelty and his love as no other could. I hated that he had so callously ended the lives of others, but Erik had sworn to me that he would never kill again unless it was for his life or mine, and I believed that he would keep that promise.

After all, for all of his deception, Erik has never broken his word to me.

Erik accompanied me until I was just outside a backstage entrance; there, in the shadow of a curtain, he slowly drew me close to him. I knew what caused his reluctance. I had not meant to, but when he was comforting my tears earlier I had pulled away from his kiss, ever so slightly. So it was I that tightened the distance between us and lifted my lips to his, but Erik quickly dominated our kiss, his hesitancy dissolving into desire

When he released me, his eyes were gleaming. I could only hope that I was not too badly flushed. We said nothing further; he leaned in to quickly kiss my cheek and disappeared.

I took several breaths to calm myself; Meg, as a principle dancer in our new production, would be at this rehearsal, and I knew that she had been waiting for some time to question me about my recent increase of strange decisions. The cancellation of my engagement to Raoul, my request to the managers that I be left strictly alone . . . my younger friend had given me a worried glance, during our last rehearsal, and I knew that this time she would not allow me to escape.

Meg I could handle. Her mother, however . . .

I shook my head, dispelling Madame Giry's knowing, dark gaze from my mind.

Several voices cried out "Meyerbeer!" in disbelief as I entered the stage; I looked around me in confusion. The performers were all gathered around Monsieur Reyer, who was standing in the center of the stage with an imposing look upon his usually cheerful face.

"Meyerbeer," he repeated stubbornly. Catching my eye as I slipped into the fringes of the group, he nodded at me. "And Mademoiselle Daae will play the part of Alice."

"Alice?" I asked Meg softly as the rest of the cast began to badger Monsieur Reyer about their parts.

"Christine! I didn't see you come in," she scolded, enfolding me in a quick hug. "Yes, Alice. Monsieur Reyer didn't tell us why, but I heard from Mother: the managers wanted to focus on operas that older and dependable. Well, you can't blame them, after . . . " Meg paused, her eyes meeting mine, but I couldn't indulge her curiosity now. When I remained silent, she shrugged and continued. "So they're putting on _Robert le Diable_, by Meyerbeer. Mother was furious when she found out the opera they chose! She does not want them to perform it."

"I wonder why," I mused. It _was_ an old one; I think it had been first performed in the early thirties. I knew little of the story, except that Alice was the sister to the main character, a misbegotten child by the name of Robert.

"I will be Alice. And you?" I asked her, unsure what parts there would be for the ballet in this production.

Meg's mouth widened into a spectacular smile. "Oh, Christine! I am to play the part of the Abbess."

"The Abbess?"

"Yes, she is a—" Meg looked about us and lowered her voice, a conspiratorial glimmer in her eyes, "a _ghost_, if you can believe it, who was unfaithful to her vows in life. She and her nuns tempt Robert into stealing a cypress branch from the grave of a saint."

"Meg!" I put heavy overtones of shock into my tone. "First you play a lady of questionable reputation, and now a fallen nun. Whatever shall become of you?"

"It's the same character, really. Stealing the branch isn't all she tempts him to do," Meg replied with a wink. We laughed then, and blushed. Studying me, Meg continued softly, "And you are the same character, too—you are Innocence."

"Aminta's innocence was consumed by fire," I replied softly.

"Christine please . . . you've never said . . . " Meg reached up and touched my cheek. I didn't answer. "What happened to you that night? And what's happening to you now? Why won't you talk to me, or Raoul, or anyone?"

"What has Raoul said?" This, I needed to know. It was vital that I keep my story in line with his, for any discrepancies could make _them_—the managers, the police, anyone—curious enough to investigate the cellars.

Meg was interrupted, however, by Monsieur Reyer sternly tapping on his music stand. "If Mademoiselles Daae and Giry would be kind enough to join us, we will begin," he informed us dryly. Sheepishly, Meg ran off to the side with the ballet dancers, while I slowly found my place with the other principle singers.

Rehearsal lasted for hours, and at the end I realized I had drawn almost wholly into Alice's character. We had many similarities, she and I; she held great love for her foster-brother, a brother begotten by a demon and taunted with his own innate darkness. My love was not that of a sister for a brother, nor was Erik anything but human, and yet . . . Alice understood what it is to stand on the edge of Hell and beg someone you love not to leap into the flames.

There was only one disruption, thank heavens, and that was not really a disruption at all. It was my turn to sing; Alice was pleading with Robert to abandon his ways and to avoid Bertram, his devil-father who tempted him to darkness and evil. My mind and my heart were solely on Erik as I stepped forward and sang the aria, and when I stepped back into place, the silence in the auditorium was stunning.

Though focused on singing well enough to make Erik proud, I had not truly been paying attention to the _sound_ of my own voice; hearing it again in my head, the soaring notes and crystal-clear tone, I realized that it had surpassed anything I had ever sung before. A slow blush rose in my cheeks as the silence held and deepened; Monsieur Reyer was the one to break it. He bowed to me, finally, and gesturing to the auditorium, said "Your kingdom, my Lady."

The other cast members applauded, and the silence was gone, replaced with their congratulations and friendly calls. I did my best to fade away from the center of attention, but there was no need for me to have bothered; the ballet dancers were practicing their number, Madame Giry controlling them as sternly as ever. With her military presence on the stage, everyone was soon concentrating on his or her own tasks.

I so nearly escaped to the cellars after rehearsal ended; it was a busy moment, with everyone chatting and laughing about mistakes made and plans for the evening. I had almost reached a small stage exit when Meg's voice behind me called out, "Christine!"

Wincing, I turned to face her. Meg was not alone; dressed in her usual black, dark and imposing against the lights of the stage, Madame Giry stood with her daughter and they gave me the same long, demanding look.

Defeated, I glanced furtively towards Box Five. I thought I had seen a white sliver there earlier, but with Erik I could never be certain. He would be listening, however, if I went with the Girys; I was sure of it.

"Yes?" I asked, as innocently as possible.

"We would like to speak with you for a few moments, Christine." Madame Giry's words were not a request.

"Of course. If you would follow me to my dressing room?"

"Yes," Meg started, but my former ballet instructor shook her head.

"My chambers, if you wouldn't mind," Madame Giry replied.

My mouth tightened in a humorless smile; I did not want to have this discussion. "Of course. Lead the way."

We reached Madame Giry's room quickly; it was, of necessity, readily accessible to both the ballet dormitories and the stage. Once inside, Meg and I sat on the bed, side-by-side as we used to do when in trouble as children. Madame Giry smiled briefly, then neatly folded herself down onto her favorite stool in front of her dresser. The smile vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

She looked at me, for a long moment, as though she was searching for something lost within my features, then she sighed and blindsided me. "You're seeing him again, Christine, aren't you?"

I had expected her to tiptoe around the subject, to hint, to question me roundaboutly . . . anything but directly ask me _that_.

"Who?" Meg asked.

Neither her mother nor I answered. We were locked into each others gazes, trying to distill truth, wondering whether we could trust. I found an underlying hint of compassion in her eyes, and closed mine, resigned to the truth. "I am." I had worn gloves to the rehearsal; no one thought it odd, considering the temperature outside. Removing the covering from my left hand, I held it out quietly for their inspection.

Meg exclaimed "Christine!" and grabbed my hand. When she looked up from the ring, she was frowning. "It's the ring Raoul gave you," she said slowly, "but it is not Raoul's ring, is it?" I shook my head. "I didn't think so. He wouldn't put replace diamonds with black stones. So whose is it?"

"Someone I love."

"Do you?" Madame Giry's voice was sharp. "Do you really, Christine?"

"Yes." The single word was steely enough to silence the both of them for a moment. "With all my heart. I have chosen, Madame Giry. And _he_ would not have forced me to return to him against my will."

My former ballet teacher's strict mouth tightened a little. "I fear that he has forced you to do much against your will."

"Not so much," I whispered. "And not very against my will." I closed my eyes for a moment, then looked at her directly once more. "_You_ know him. I don't know how, but you do. How can you doubt that he has been anything other than a perfect gentleman?"

"Perfect is a rather misleading term," Erik commented from just inside the doorway.

_Erik_

"My dear," I continued as the three women stared at me with differing degrees of apprehension, "surely your memory is not so short?" I drew Christine to me with a gesture, winking down at her out of the Giry's sight. She smiled, a little, and leaned against me as I wrapped one arm around her.

"_Le Fantôme,_" the little Giry girl murmured, her eyes wide. I let go of Christine for only a moment to give her a fluid, mocking half-bow.

"Erik," There was a definite edge of exasperation in Marguerite's tone.

I raised my one eyebrow at her. "You can hardly expect me to leave the girl alone when you are trying to poison her against me."

"Not poison, Erik." She sighed, and I could see sudden signs of weariness her face. "Warn. Caution. Remind her—and you—that you two cannot simply lock yourselves away in the cellars and let the world burn above you."

I grimaced, but it was Christine who answered. "We know, Madame Giry. This . . . it isn't like last time. I promise. And we thank you for your kindness, but really, we need to be returning to our home." She stepped away from me and drew her blonde ballet friend into a swift embrace. "Meg, I promise, I will talk with you later."

"You must tell me _everything_," was Meg's reply. Christine laughed, and knelt to wrap her arms about Marguerite's waist, as she had often done as a child.

"Thank you," she whispered simply, and then we were gone, swiftly traveling down toward the chilly familiarity of our home.

_Christine_

Erik drew me towards the kitchen, where I could smell tea waiting. My spirits lifted instantly at the thought of something warm and soothing to drink. He glanced at me and seemed to read the pleasure on my face. "Happy, are we?"

"You always know exactly what I need," I answered as he sat me at the table and poured one of his exotic mixtures into the heavy, comforting mug I usually preferred. It was a citrus blend, one of my favorites. Erik raised an eyebrow at my comment, but said nothing until I had taken a few sips of the tea.

"It is an interesting choice the managers have made." He reclined against the table beside me, lean, dangerous. One of his long fingers traced down my cheek. "You will make an exquisite Alice." I looked up at him; his eyes were unreadable. "Would you like me to be your Robert?" Erik asked in a low, almost menacing whisper.

"No," I replied in a tone just as soft. "Be Raimbaut, Alice's fiancé."

"Raimbaut is a minstrel."

"And you are not?"

His slow smirk chilled me. "I had thought I was much closer to the character of the Devil's Child." The strange emphasis he put on the last two words unnerved me enough that I reached out to hold his hand in my own.Erik must have caught my nervousness, for his strange mood quieted under my touch.

"What is it?" I wondered aloud, abandoning my empty teacup to stare up at him, both of my small hands wrapped around his wrist. "What is bothering you?"

I had not thought he was going to answer, but finally Erik murmured, "Memories," before pulling me to my feet. "You need your rest," was all he said as he hauled me towards my room.

"Erik." He stopped, turned to meet my eyes. I stepped closer and gently touched his cheek. "You aren't really thinking of taking a part, are you?"

"Worried?"

I held his gaze. "Yes. I don't want the managers to know that you are alive."

"That's an odd motive, considering our recent discussion with the Giry family."

"Erik, please! What did you want me to do—lie to them?"

This made him snort; he has noted several times that I am a less-than-expert fibber. In my opinion, one in the house is quite enough. Erik sighed and ran his hands lightly down my arms. "I promise, Christine. I won't be unexpectedly appearing onstage. I will stay properly hidden. Does that satisfy you?"

"Yes."

"Good. Bed." He finished roughly escorting me to my room, and left me standing by my door with a quick kiss. A warning in his eyes prevented me from asking him to stay by my side.

Resigned to falling asleep alone, I quickly readied myself for bed and slipped under the covers.

I was almost asleep when I felt Erik lie down next to me; smiling, I snuggled back against him and drifted into dreams.

The following day, and throughout the next few weeks, we developed a steady routine. I spent the daylight hours in rehearsal, and every evening Erik would give me a singing lesson. After our lesson, we would usually spend a quiet evening together, Erik reading to me from his vast collection of books as I leaned against his side. If his mood was foul, I would try to lure him into a better temper, but failing that, I learned to give him space and time. We were learning to live together better; I realized that, far from being angry with me, Erik simply was a very solitary man, and he began to understand that I was used to living with crowds of girls in the dormitories. While I relished the quiet of Erik's home, he surprised me one Saturday by delivering me outside of Meg Giry's dressing room. That, too, became a part of our routine; I hadn't felt restricted to his home, but with Erik's express permission I began to visit Meg regularly.

Every evening, Erik came to my room just before I was asleep, and every morning he left as soon as I began to wake up. He never did lock me in again, but I wished he would stay. I felt that spending that quiet, calming time together might be good for us, but I had no other complaints, and so decided to let him have his way on this.

When we married, however . . .

_When_ we married. Not if, though as the weeks passed and Erik made no further mention of a wedding, I began to wonder if his doubts were banished, or merely hidden.

_Erik_

It would be her greatest triumph yet, the opening of _Robert le Diable_ set for tonight. Everything was ready; her voice was so exquisite, I could hardly believe that it came from a mortal throat. The ballet knew their number, the other singers were passably prepared; even that ghastly chandelier had been replaced, though with something less gaudy and quite a bit more beautiful, in my opinion. The Opera house had already had its re-opening gala, the night that Christine first came to my home, but _this_ was the production that would decide whether the Opera would be able to remain in operation.

The managers were, if possible, even more nervous than usual.

I watched _Robert le Diable _hidden in their box, amused at the worried conversation going back and forth between them. It was only Christine's strict warning against any tricks that kept me from teasing them when I became a topic of conversation; apparently, Andre and Firmin were not nearly as certain of my demise as they pretended.

My attention left the managers, however, when Christine stepped onto the stage.

I had never, in all my dreams, thought of seeing anything so beautiful. She began to sing, her voice challenging heaven with its divine sound, and I knew that if she left me again, I would die.

The past few weeks, with her in my home, had given me a peace unlike anything else I had ever experienced. I had not imagined that her very presence would be comforting. I _had_ almost died, last time, from sheer despair; to lose her now, when she had so thoroughly insinuated herself into my life, would destroy me.

And yet, the gentleman in me continually reminded me that our current living situation was highly improper. The solution he suggested was one I knew Christine favored . . . more than favored. She had not spoken of it since, but her firm declaration of a desire to marry me still played regularly in my mind.

We _could_ stay in my home—not permanently, of course, for I wanted to live as a normal man if at all possible—but for a while longer. Money, thanks to my many years of being a salaried Phantom, was not an issue. Other than the Girys, Christine had no family, no one to protest her wedding someone as eminently unsuitable as I was; in fact, it seemed as though the only obstacle to our marriage was, in fact, me.

I grimaced. I was unworthy of her; I would _always_ be unworthy of her.

But if I was what she wanted . . .

Who was I to deny the wishes of an angel?

_Christine_

Laughing, my arms overflowing with flowers, I just managed to push the door to my dressing room closed; I leaned back against it, breathless. To say that the opening night of _Robert le Diable_ had been a success was something of an understatement; the theatre was overflowing with guests and patrons, all of them praising the new production.

A quiet chuckle to my left made me turn my head; gently, Erik pulled a particularly lovely bouquet out of my arms. "It appears that you are sprouting, my dear," he murmured, setting the flowers aside.

I quickly laid the various blossoms on the dresser and turned to meet his eyes; there was only one man's approval I sought tonight. Erik smiled faintly and drew me near, his eyes glowing down at me as he ran a hand through my hair; his singular red rose, tied with a velvety black ribbon, appeared in his hand as if he had pulled it from my curls by magic,. "You were magnificent," he said softly, leaning down to kiss my cheek as he tucked the smooth-stemmed rose behind my ear.

"Was I really?" I asked, breathless again for a different reason.

"Brilliant. Ingenious." With every word, his lips pressed against my skin, closer to my mouth each time. "Glowing. Spectacular . . ." He kissed me fully, tenderly. "In a word, my dear, exquisite."

Flushing with praise and his nearness, I smiled timidly and reached up to run my fingers through his hair. Erik closed his eyes, the upward turning of his mouth letting me know he was thoroughly enjoying the attention.

His eyes opened, after a moment, and he nodded in the direction of my changing-screen. Obediently I stepped behind it, hurriedly slipping out of my costume and into the more comfortable gown I had worn on that morning. I had long since gotten over the nervousness of having Erik in the room while I changed; I knew the screen was opaque, and beyond that, I trusted him to behave as a gentleman should. He always did; I had never yet stepped out from behind the screen except to find him with his back turned to me.

Today was no different; I came up to his side and Erik lightly grasped my hand, leading me through the mirror and down toward our home.

That night was much like any other, though we did not have a lesson; Erik wanted my voice to rest. So we spent the evening on the couch, me laying with my head in his lap as he read to me from a collection of Swedish folktales. I knew he had purchased the book for me, as a reminder of my homeland and my father; I loved dearly for him to read the stories of my childhood. Almost, I could hear my father's violin playing in the background, a soothing lullaby . . .

I woke, briefly, as Erik tucked me into bed and lay down next to me; he hummed a few bars of that same Swedish lullaby I had almost heard, and I drifted back to sleep.

I was so used to finding Erik gone when I awoke that it startled me when he was still with me the next morning. Sitting up quickly, I stared down at him in surprise; he was watching me with a faint smirk on his features. "Good morning," Erik greeted me quietly, his voice still amused but his eyes seeking my approval. "How was your rest?"

My lips pulled up in a wide, happy smile as I leaned down to rest my head against his chest. "Wonderful."

"I take it my presence pleases you."

Hoping that he wouldn't be angry, I nodded.

"Christine," he spoke, then paused. Carefully, he stroked my back with one hand. We were both still wearing our clothes from the previous day, but I sighed contently anyway and waited for him to continue. "Would it . . . please you, if I stayed with you every morning?"

"Yes." I did not have to consider my answer; any time he was near me, even when he was angry, I treasured.

Erik lifted my chin, forcing me to look at him. "And if I wanted to be here—legally? What would you say then?"

My eyes widened. "Do you mean that?" I demanded, sitting up to stare down at him. A flicker of doubt crossed his face, but his mouth twitched, and he nodded. To be absolutely certain, I asked, "You wish to marry me?"

"Christine," he whispered, and the tenderness in his gaze overwhelmed me. "I have wanted nothing else."

"Then I think," I answered, my voice breaking a little as tears spilled down my cheeks, "that I would say yes." I lay back down, my head against his chest, and wept joy as he soothingly ran his fingers through my hair.

These tears, I did not mind crying.

_Erik_

It was easier than I imagined, to find a priest who was willing to marry us. Marguerite had apparently been waiting for us to 'do the decent thing', as she put it, and had some time ago contacted an old friend of her family's who had gone into the ministry. He was, in fact, the same man who had married Marguerite and her lost Richard Giry, many years before.

The church was a beautiful little country chapel a few miles south of Paris; we arrived in the early afternoon. As I waited for Christine to enter—she had been whisked away by the Girys to prepare—I realized that, though I had never before felt at ease in a church, the sensation I was experiencing now brought to mind only one word: peace.

I did not have a great deal of experience with peace. And yet, with Christine's influence on my life, I had begun to feel it with greater and greater frequency; most often, it was an unnamed little corner of my heart, for once at rest and whole. Every now and then it would rise up and fill me with the promise of something warmer, deeper, than I had ever experienced, but before now the promised had always remained merely an unfulfilled vow.

Then I turned, and watched my salvation walk toward me.

Tears were sparkling in her eyes, the only jewels she needed; Christine seemed to float, her white gown a vessel borrowed from Heaven to bring one of its angels to my side. As she came to stand beside me, the fresh white flowers in her hair filled the air with sweetness; the happiness in her radiant smile filled my soul with a trembling hope. It is worse than a cliché, to say that a bride glowed, but I will swear to my deathbed that she was surrounded with an otherworldly light as we spoke our vows.

And then she was mine, fully, truly, and wholly mine, and the peace ceased to be only a promise. She was white fire, the kiss that sealed her to me a cleansing baptism that erased the old pain and grief and spread them with the soothing balm of her love, and I knew at last the freedom of spirit that comes from being whole.

_One Year Later_

_Christine_

I woke in the night when Erik rose soundlessly from our bed; a few moments later, I heard the quiet moans Michel always made before he began to truly cry. Smiling, I rose and followed my husband to our son's cradle.

"There now," I heard him sooth, and the baby's unhappy mumble turned into a coo. I stopped for a moment to soak in the sight of my beloved holding our son, both of them outlined against the moonlight in our new home outside of Paris. To think that I might not have had this moment, that I might have stayed with another out of fear of the love I shared with this man . . . it was enough to make me come up behind them, wrapping my arms securely about Erik's waist.

"I love you," I murmured, leaning my head against his back.

"Look, now, Michel, you've woken your mother," Erik scolded, but his tone was full of only love. The baby in question gurgled.

I laughed softly and gently took our son into my arms. Erik's eyes met mine for a moment over Michel, and my heart fluttered as I saw there what I never had expected to, what shook my very soul every time I witnessed that gentleness in his gaze which was a reflection of what I felt in my own spirit.

Peace.

_fin_

**Author's Note**: I have gone with what seems to be a traditional convention of naming Madame Giry 'Marguerite' (I can't remember if she is named in the books or not). I keep thinking that Monsieur Giry is named in the Leroux novel, but my copy is with a relative, so I called him Richard.

I hope that you have enjoyed reading _A Voice without a Soul_, and I thank you again for your patience and your praise. Comments are most welcome.

My other stories should be finished . . . soon. Not with any sort of immediacy, for I want to finish them (or mostly finish them) before I post them, but soon. Merci, et au revoir!


End file.
